


like we stood a chance

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-08 15:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16431944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dele knows his life is a walking cliche. He works in an independently-run coffee shop opposite the new Tottenham Hotspur stadium, spends his days watching romance films and observes his friends as they get themselves into comedic yet unbelievable situations. All he needs is to bump into a celebrity in the middle of London and he will become the personification of Notting Hill.Then he kisses Eric Dier, newly-signed Spurs player, while drunk at a party. Life gets more complicated after that.





	1. before the storm

**Author's Note:**

> okay.... some ground rules to make this make sense:
> 
> 1\. nobody is famous in this fic apart from the tottenham players (bar dele). kane, tripps, dier etc: famous. dele, stones, maguire etc: not famous. 
> 
> 2\. they're all two years younger than their actual ages (to make the university scenario work). so dele is 20, john is 22, trent is 18.
> 
> 3\. this is basically a coffee shop/halloween/notting hill au. im so sorry.

It’s raining outside: gentle drops trickle down the foggy glass panes, pooling at the bottom like tear-flooded waterlines of a person who has just had their heart broken. Comforting steam hangs in the air, fogging up the doors and floating around customers scarf-covered necks as the coffee shop fills with the morning buzz of life. _Lily’s_ , short for _The Lily Flat-White’s Coffee Shop_ , prides itself in being the closest and liveliest coffee shop to the stadium of Tottenham Hotspur. On match day kit cladded fans stumble through the door, cool hands clapped together as they order something warm to tide them over before the game. Every other day of the week the wooden stools and upholstered furniture offer businessmen and women, students and tourists who pass by a little, quiet seat away from the usual hustle and bustle of Central London.

“Hi, welcome to _Lily’s_ ,” Dele says. “How can I help you?” He stands with a notepad in one hand, pen twirling around his dainty fingers as he waits for the lady parallel to him to order.

“Can I just get a small Americano to go, please?” She asks.

Dele nods, scrawling the order on a small sheet of paper. He tears it off and places it next to the machine, totalling the cost of the order into the till. Dele has worked at _Lily’s_ for the best part of a year and a half but still has to turn around to check the cost of certain items. Other baristas had memorised the price list, effortlessly entering the amount and sifting change into the correct compartments but Dele, slightly confused and always a little tired Dele, had to remind himself. Especially at seven in the morning as he battled a deathly headache following his cousin’s wedding. Dele had moved from Milton Keynes to London in hopes of breaking into the fashion industry, deciding to bypass university as to not submerge himself in an endless debt before he’d even cracked twenty years old. He found a house share with a few other lads in the East, a flat that always stunk of lynx and had spare socks scattered all over the floor. Dele lives with a co-worker, a lanky Greek-god-looking guy called John, and two others who study at unis across London. So while Dele hadn’t anticipated spending his waking days and nights working in a little coffee shop instead of sauntering down a runway or posing in front of cameras for a magazine’s front page spread, he felt happy enough.

“Of course you can,” Dele smiles, jumping ever so slightly as John comes behind the counter to start her drink. John pinches his side as he slides beside Dele, a grin spreading across his entire face as he reads the order and fiddles with the tubs of different coffee beans. “Two-twenty, please.”

Dele and the lady exchange handfuls of change, her pale fingers dropping fifty pence of her coins into the tips jar when the payment had been completed. They share a gleeful smile, Dele tipping his head in gratitude before hopping on the counter against the wall. The morning rush hadn’t quite come about yet, the usual burst of businessmen and schoolkids not flooding through the doors until eight. It was at this time in the morning and late in the afternoon that Dele preferred. When the only customers hunched over the low coffee tables were ones who had just happened to stumble across the shop as they sought out a cheap place for breakfast. The businesspeople would hardly look at Dele, tossing their order at him as if it were a demand rather than a friendly request, eyes always glued to the blue glow of their phones. It always felt so impersonal, an interaction he expected to experience if he worked in a larger chain like _Starbucks_ or _Costa_ : not in his little safe haven of _Lily’s_.

“So how was the wedding, Del?” John asks after handing the lovely lady her drink. She wishes them a happy day and tosses them a sweet smile as she crosses the length to the door and steps back out into the cool of mid-October.

“It was nice. She looked great, the reception was mint. I’m shattered now, though.” Dele chuckles, holding his hands over the heater as he pulls them out of their permanent low temperature.

“You could’ve called out today, you know.”

“Need the money, Stones. Rent and bills are due and I don’t have enough in my bank to get me through the month.” Dele explains, eyes following John who meanders around the shop to rearrange the food in the counters. They’d spent the early morning, earlier than _seven_ , unpacking new boxes of cookies and muffins for the festive, spooky season. Being the fifteenth of October, almost exactly halfway through the spookiest month of the year, meant _Lily’s_ annual order of pumpkin decorated cookies and other cliché treats had been delivered.

“Wouldn’t life be so much easier if we were rich?”

“Understatement of the year. If we were rich our lives would be mint. I mean, look,” Dele tosses a hand in the direction of the newspapers stacked in a basket by the till. The sports section glares out at the world, a headline covering a footballer’s absurdly high weekly pay fronting the main article on the page. “A hundred grand a week? And they want more? Imagine that. I should’ve gone into football instead.”

John nods. “You’re a decent footballer to be fair, Del. Whenever we play five-a-side you do really well.”

“Thanks, doll. That’s great advice now I’m way past the age to even get into the sport. Guess I’ll keep heading towards the unattainable goal of fronting a fashion magazine.” Dele sighs.

“Hey,” John scolds, tossing a gingerbread Mummy at Dele’s head. “None of that self-deprecating behaviour here. The fashion magazines are missing out if they don’t want your fit face on the front page.”

Dele stays silent as he listens to John, unwrapping the gingerbread Mummy to take a bite from it. “Might watch Notting Hill when I get back tonight. You still going out with that lad you met at the Tube the other day?”

“Notting Hill? Really?” John laughs. “And no, I’m not. I cancelled yesterday. Got some dodgy vibes when I was texting him. He said something about how he hates tattoos and I just… pulled my sleeves down even though he couldn’t see me.”

“Sounds like a twat. You deserve better. And yes, Notting Hill. I like to convince myself that someone famous could walk in and fall in love with me as we talk about different syrups they could add to their coffee.” Dele shrugs, standing up from the counter as a family of four walks in. They all have Tottenham Hotspur tour passes around their necks, fingertips curled horribly tight around gift shop bags as they stare up at the menu.

“Fine. I’ll order takeout and we can watch Notting Hill. Maybe… maybe Gareth Southgate could walk in. Or Rami Malek. I’d let them fall in love with me.”

“God, shut _up_ ,” Dele mutters, forcing a smile on his face as he greets the mother of the family. “Hi, good morning. What can I get you?”

The family ask for two lattes, one cup of tea – milky and no sugar – and a _supreme_ hot chocolate with extra sprinkles. Dele tosses in some free gingerbread men for the two kids, finding their little rosy cheeks too cute to resist as he watches them eye up the Halloween treats in front of them.

As John fixes up their drinks, zooming through them from his extensive training, Dele turns to the daughter of the family, head tilting to the side as he looks at the back of her shirt. “So you like Spurs?” He asks.

The girl looks at her mother, unsure of whether to engage in conversation with the stranger. “Go on, Jess.”

The girl, Jess, looks up at Dele, nodding happily in response to his question. “Yes! We came all the way here just to see the stadium. We’re going to their game on the weekend, too.”

Dele smiled. “That’s so cool! Who is your favourite player?”

“I love Harry Kane!” Jess’ brother interrupts, shouldering his coat off to show Dele the back of his shirt.

“He asked _me_ , Archie!” Jess frowns. “I like Eric Dier. He’s new, but he’s really good. I think his hair is really pretty. I hope he sees my shirt when I’m there on the weekend. I got it from the shop when we did the tour yesterday.”

“It looks so nice. I’m sure he’ll love it. Here,” Dele reaches behind the counter, picking up two of their famous shortbread biscuits decorated like a football. Black and white icing floods the surface of the biscuit, a little edible spurs logo placed in the centre. “We only give these out to special people. I hope you and your brother like them.”

Jess grins as she takes the biscuits from Dele, dashing off to where her brother has sat down in the window seat. The parents looked at Dele with pure joy as they took the tray of drinks to the seats, and Dele smiled as he heard them all talking about how nice the coffee shop was.

“Are you trying to get a raise, or something?” John chuckles, hands wrist-deep in water as he cleaned some dirtied mugs and spoons used to make the drinks. “You’re ridiculously sucking up to every single customer. The boss isn’t even here today.”

“I’m just trying to have a nice morning, John. I like providing good customer service.” Dele responds, sticking his tongue out at John who flicks his damp fingertips in Dele’s face.

“Shut up and go clean up the tables.”

“You aren’t the boss of me.” Dele declares.

“I am when Rebecca isn’t here, Del,” John answers, pointing at the _manager_ badge underneath his nametag. “Now go and clean before I throw soap at your face.”

⸙

Dele curls further into his blanket as his face lights from the barely-there glow of the TV. John had just gone to answer the door, pockets jingling as the change for their takeout bounced while he ran down the stairs. It was just the two of them: Jordan had been gone for two days, staying over at a uni friend’s flat as they bounced between clubs every evening and Maguire left town to celebrate his girlfriend’s birthday.

Dele feels warm inside as he watches Hugh Grant walk through the streets of London, white shirt unbuttoned and hair looking positively _soft_. The scenes with Grant’s characters family warms Dele’s heart, reminding him of home and of how good it felt when all of their friends would crowd around their flat, playing board games and lazily sipping from cheap, corner-shop beers until the early morning sun spilt through the open curtains.

“Chicken Tikka Balti and pilau rice for you,” John says as he walks back into the living room, a paper bag held in each hand. “It was Trent, actually. Mentioned something about a Halloween party on the weekend.”

“When are you going to stop befriending the UberEats drivers? It’s so weird, Stones.” Dele mumbles, momentarily pausing the film as he leans forward to plate up his food. While John will happily eat straight out of the container and exert his caveman like manners all evening, Dele likes to organise his food onto a plate and create some sort of façade of being a clean and organised person.

“It’s not weird, Del. Trent is a mate. It’s just a coincidence that he also works as a delivery driver,” John says. “Anyway. This Halloween party. It’s at a club. No costumes or anything. Just come looking a bit spooky. Cheap drinks, fancy VIP area. We should go.”

“Why do you think we can afford to go to fancy central London parties, John? My Oyster card keeps getting rejected because I don’t have enough money to top it up past three pounds.” Dele groans.

“You’re _so_ boring, Del. If you were a university student you’d be so ridiculously dull. Please? It’s a fiver to get in, you’re pretty enough to have people buy drinks for you. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet some super famous guy there who will be the Anna to your William.” John _begs_ , breaking off bits of a poppadum to toss into Dele’s hair.

“Fuck, you’re annoying.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Grins John, phone already whipped out as he inevitably texted Trent, their UberEats delivery driver, that they’d need two tickets to the non-costume Halloween party.

⸙

Dele sits in silence as he lets John paint fake blood on his face, two little drips extending from the corner of his lips to the bottom of his chin. He has fake fangs over his incisors, the tacky plastic feeling too sharp that he keeps accidentally cutting himself when he goes to speak. There are red contacts tormenting him on the bathroom sink, reminding him with every blink how his eyes will soon be dry and uncomfortable for the entire evening.

“So… tell me again. Why are we dressing up as vampires? I thought this wasn’t a costume party?” Dele asks, wincing as one of the fake incisors catches on his bottom lip again.

“These aren’t really costumes. Costumes are full-on clothing, extensive makeup… like cosplay. This is just trying to look spooky. Ghostly, almost.” John explains. He’s already decked head to toe in vampire clothing, red contacts creeping Dele out everytime they make eye contact. Jordan had sent a text to their flat group chat earlier today declaring that’d he’d be getting to the club to help ‘ _get the rave on_ ’ later in the evening. Maguire came back a few days ago and took a lot more persuading to come and even _more_ to get in the full bloodied vampire costume. He’d brought Fern along, though, who had been more than eager to get in with the flat costume idea. It was her fake blood that John had stolen, actually.

“This party better be good, Stones. And not actually some bollocks uni thing that Trent organised.”

“What is your problem with Trent, Del? He’s a nice person. You’re just too judgemental about people’s jobs.” John declares, eyebrows drawn together as he focuses on getting the streaks of blood as symmetrical as possible.

“It’s not his job. I just find it… unusual that you’re besties with an eighteen-year-old sports science student. You’re twenty-two, John. Adult friends.” Dele smiles, chuckling as John playfully ruffles up his hair.

“Right. You’re sorted. And the taxi is outside. Go get in and I’ll be down in a second.”

“Love you, Mr Makeup Artist.”

John glares at Dele. “Leave.”

⸙

The club is loud and _hot_. Dele is glad they purchased tickets beforehand given the line encircling the entire building as partygoers waited in the rain to try and get into the club. As their small group cuts through the line Dele can only assume that there must be some celebrity guests or important people doing PAs inside, hence the absurd queue. The moment they step inside Dele is struck by how loud and busy the club is; in every corner, there are couples moving provocatively against each other, haphazardly applied spooky makeup donning the faces of most dancers crowding the main floor.

“It’s so busy.” Dele yells over the music, keeping a tight grip on John’s arm as they shoulder their way through the thicket of people.

“We’re going to head off and… you know… dance,” Maguire says, gesturing to him and Fern. “We’ll meet back up later for the taxi back.”

John and Dele nod, Dele shooting a wink in Maguire’s direction as the lovebirds depart. Dele manages to drag John to the bar after a few minutes of fumbling through the darkness, hand dipping into his pocket to get a hold of the card he bought. “What drink do you want, Stones?”

“You’re buying me a drink?” John asks. “Best date ever, you are.”

“Shove off. You paid for the tickets so it’s only fair I start us off.” Dele shrugs, raising ever so slightly onto his tiptoes so he can hear what John is saying to him.

“Love you. I’ll start simple. Vodka coke. Double.” John says.

“Simple. Okay.” Dele chuckles, turning away from John so he can order their drinks. He is scarily aware of a group of people on the opposite side of the bar who quietly chat among themselves before looking in Dele’s direction. He does a double take, glancing around to see if there is anybody else they could be looking at. Under the darkness, only occasional green and orange lighting scanning across their faces, Dele can’t get a good look at who they are. He just hopes his vampire makeup is scary enough, or cringey enough, for them to not want to come and talk to him.

They dance for a short while, Dele and John, clinking their glasses together and laughing through endless jokes that entwine their broken and barely audible conversation together. It’s moments like this that remind Dele how lucky he is. He has John, _gorgeous_ John, who forces him to go out and live a life that any regular twenty year old would. There may be parts of his life that aren’t working how he expects or wants them to be. But for every second that skews off path, he always has someone to go home to who will watch shitty romance films and bake awful brownies with him.

The two of them dance until someone taps on his shoulder: a bartender, decked head to toe in the black uniform, hands him a suspiciously green-coloured drink. “It’s from the vampire at the bar.”

Dele turns around, half expecting to see Maguire or Pickford drunkenly grinning at him. Instead, he is greeted with an unusual and unfamiliar face. Someone with Disney-esque hair, eyes not meeting Dele’s as they look around the club. “What do I do?” Dele asks.

“Go speak to him? He just bought you a drink. That’s the most obvious invitation to go and talk to someone. I swear… it’s like you’ve never been flirted with before.” John says, gently pushing Dele away from the dancefloor.

“But what if he is like… weird? Weird people buy someone a drink. Most people just come up and talk to someone. He could’ve drugged this shit.” Dele argues.

“Dele,” John groans. “The bartender brought the drink straight to you. Just go and see what he wants. If you don’t want to stay just walk away from him. And don’t put your drink down or leave it alone and nobody will do anything. Go and have _fun_.”

And with one final push, Dele is hesitantly weaving his way over to the bar, nonchalantly leaning against the surface as he surveys the perimeter, mimicking the actions of the mystery man who purchased him what Dele now knows is a relatively expensive Halloween-themed cocktail. _Sex on the Zom-beach_. Using kiwi and apple extracts rather than cranberry and orange juice to obtain the green colour.

“I see you copied my style.” The guy says, body finally turning a quarter to face and look at Dele.

“In what way?” Dele asks.

“Vampire,” the guy replies, gesturing to their very similar makeup. “It’s like I stepped out of _The Vampire Diaries_ and you stepped right out of _Twilight_.”

“Well, since _Twilight_ is the superior vampire franchise I’m honoured by your sentiment,” Dele smiles, holding up his drink to the guy-with-no-name. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” he says. “And _Twilight_? Superior? Questionable, but I can take it.”

“There’s no competition. The fact you mentioned the film means you know it’s accurate.”

“I haven’t seen them in a long time. Think I’m due a rewatch.”

“Well,” Dele says. “I have the box set at home. Feel free to come see them and be reminded that they are the true cinematic masterpieces of 2008 onwards.”

“Netflix and chill?”

Dele feels a little bit of sick come up his throat. “Not with a stranger.”

“Who says I’m a stranger?”

Dele pulls his eyebrows together. “The fact you don’t know my name and I don’t know yours.”

“I’m Eric.”

“Dele.”

Eric pauses. “It’s nice to meet you, Dele.”

“Why did you buy me a drink?” Dele asks.

“I saw you at the bar earlier with the tall man. The one who called you the best date ever?” Eric starts. “I just wanted to know whether that was a true fact because, like, you’re almost too fit to be real.”

“God, that was the worst pickup line… ever,” Dele laughs. “And he’s not my date. Best friend, yeah. But not my date.” He finishes, allowing himself to lean a little closer to Eric. Following his really awful pickup line, Dele feels like he can trust dorky Eric a bit more. He may be a bit strange and still seem really out of place in the club, but he looks friendly and, for Dele, that was good enough.

“Well, that’s positive information because it leads perfectly to my next question which is,” Eric says, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his phone. “Would you happen to have a phone number you’d like to give to the guy who may dish out the worst pickup lines _ever_ , but the guy who thinks you’re really beautiful and interesting?”

And, _wow_. This is the most romantic action Dele thinks he’s encountered since the first year he lived in London when he went out every weekend almost begging for attention. He used to be a right drama queen, always living for the number of napkins he’d take home every day with numbers from different people he never planned to speak to again. He collected them like trophies or medals, like each napkin validated his choice to move to the capital when he realised his ambitions in fashion were a lot harder than he initially thought.

“Normally, I don’t. But for Edward Cullen? Sure.” Dele shrugs, taking Eric’s phone as he types in his number. His _real_ number. He feels a lot like Rachel in that one scene of _Friends_ where Phoebe is surprised she gives a guy her actual number, as if it were the unusual choice to make. Perhaps he’ll regret it in the morning when he wakes up to some inevitably drunk and horny messages from Eric (he seems like the kind) but, for now, tipsy Dele likes the idea of having this guy in his life.

“Do you dance?”

“I mean… badly.” Dele answers.

“Cool. Let’s go, then.”

Dele lets Eric-the-stranger take his hand, ignoring the cliché fireworks that he feels as they saunter to the middle of the floor. A new song starts just as they find a decent space on the floor, a little away from the hustle and bustle of university students basking in the glory of their first Halloween party in London, but still close enough so the music is almost painfully loud and the scattered lighting is still blinding.

“What song is this?” Dele asks.

“Seriously?” Eric chuckles. “It’s Jackie Chan, Dele.”

“I’m uncultured.” Dele shrugs.

“I can culture you.”

And… Dele can’t tell if that was intended to be as flirty and suggestive as it came out. But it made him smile. Made him more interested in Eric as they sunk into the music. As the song progressed towards the first climactic point it felt as if the whole room submerged into water, blocking out the presence and sounds and anybody and everything other than the people around them. Dele let Eric hold his waist, fingers gripping a little tight as they moved together to the sultry and vibrating tones of the song. The lights flash over Eric’s eyes and Dele wishes he could see him without the scary contacts in. Under direct light Eric looks familiar but, six cocktails down, Dele couldn’t place him.

“What colour are your eyes?” Dele asks, loud and painful on his throat as he shouts over the music.

Eric looks momentarily confused. It doesn’t last, though. “Blue.”

Dele nods, staying silent as the song continues. He takes an occasional sip from the green drink, holding it up so Eric can taste the alcohol he had bought himself. Dele is a little scared by how natural it feels to be so near to someone he just met. He enjoyed watching films where people feel a _connection_ the moment they met but, for Dele, it didn’t settle right in his bones to experience it. It frightens him. He enjoys watching love and romance but experiencing it is something he doesn’t particularly enjoy.

“What about you?”

“Huh?” Dele asks.

“Your eyes,” Eric clarifies. “What colour are yours.”

“Brown,” Dele says. “Not as interesting as blue.”

“That’s not true,” Eric continues. “Guess I’ll have to see you without the contacts so I can describe how beautiful brown eyes are to you.”

“God,” Dele laughs. “Have you just stepped out of a rom-com? You sound like the guys I watch on Netflix every day.”

“Don’t couples in romcoms kiss after… like… ten minutes of knowing each other?” Eric asks, not waiting for Dele’s answer as they both know the obvious answer of the question. “I had no intentions of going that far, but-”

Dele is disappointed by his actions. He knows he’ll regret it in the morning when he’s at work and suddenly he remembers the events of the evening before. But he kisses Eric. Leans up, erases the minute distance between them, and savours the sweet taste of peach Schnapps residing on Eric’s lips. Eric doesn’t mind, though, if the way his arm encircled Dele’s waist is a way to examine his thoughts on the situation. And the pressure that he gives back. It is rash and rushed and unnecessary but it’s his _life_. He’s young and he’s supposed to do silly things like kiss guys who buy him drinks and talk to him about vampires.

Dele pulls back the minute the song ends. Everyone in the club descends back to Earth, suddenly becoming aware of their surroundings again. Drips of people leave the dancefloor, stumbling to the bar or the toilets or even outside to get some fresh air. Dele can’t look at Eric. He doesn’t want to see the regret seeping through Eric’s currently red-coloured eyes. Instead, he finds John across the room; John who is slouched against the bar, fake blood on his chin smeared as he is surrounded by several people he’s picked up during his time alone. John matches Dele’s gaze, shooting a wink and a playful wink in Dele’s direction. So he saw. _Great._

“Hey,” Dele is drawn back to his present as he hears Eric’s voice again. “I have a booth in the VIP section. Do you want to join me?”

“You have a booth? How? Are you rich?” Dele asks. The most inappropriate question he could ever ask. But he’s tipsy and drunk on love and Eric doesn’t seem to mind.

“My… friends and I are celebrating. We get a booth when we celebrate.” Eric answers. Dele senses he’s keeping something secret, some words hanging on his lips that he doesn’t want to air right now.

“I’d love to, but my friend… tall one. He’s looking a bit gone.” Dele says, pointing in John’s direction. John who has let someone smear alcohol on his cheek so they could lick it off. It all seemed too vulgar for a club, in Dele’s opinion, and as Eric laughed he knew the other vampire agreed.

“Makes sense,” Eric says, hand releasing Dele’s waist so he could gently rub his arm instead. “If I text you, you’re not going to leave me on read, are you? I don’t really buy people drinks unless I’m really interested in them. So I’d be more heartbroken than I’m willing to admit if you just never replied.”

“Of course I’ll reply.” Dele smiles, pressing another completely unnecessary kiss to Eric’s cheek.

“Cool,” Eric says. “I’ll see you soon.”

Dele nods, looking down to where Eric is holding his arm. When they part Dele feels cold despite the bodies all around him, as if his safety blanket had been stripped from him and he was stranded in the ocean. He manages to scramble his way to where John is, peeling his best friend from the leeches attached to his side and essentially just feeling up every part of his body.

“We’re going home.” Dele says.

John doesn’t argue, just plants a kiss on Dele’s cheek. His words are slurred as he speaks and Dele doesn’t want to imagine how much alcohol is swimming in his system. “I love you. I can’t wait to hear _all_ about your evening tomorrow. I’m going to be so happy all day!”

⸙

“I fucking hate alcohol.” John says as they prepare the shop on Sunday morning. The shorter opening hours of eleven in the morning until four in the afternoon allow their day to be a little more relaxed. Business on Sunday is always a little dry, a rare worker dropping by mostly around lunchtime to pick up a snack to tide them through the afternoon. Luckily Tottenham played the day before – a shift which, frankly, had been _hellish_ – so there were no fans, no Spurs shirts and no bustling crowds hovering along the roads outside the coffee shop.

The only grievance Dele has with the late opening and the uneventful day is the fact it gives John a lot more time to interrogate him. Especially since their manager had turned up today and a few of their friends in the wider friendship group had decided to pop by. Dele imagines that John invited them along for the little gossip session about Dele’s late night rendezvous with a stranger, but Dele doesn’t really mind. It feels nice to have something to share, rather than always listening in to his friends talking about their countless dates and buzzing love life.

“You say that, babes, but we all know you’ll be out on the piss in a few days.” Dele explains, eyes looking from John to the cups of coffee he was making for all five of them. Becca, manager and friend, had wanted a cup of tea, nothing too fancy as she ‘didn’t want to use up her sugar count’. It didn’t really make sense to Dele, but Becca had an interesting way of living life. Between her ungodly obsession with Harry Kane, her life consisted mainly of monitoring her sugar count and swearing at anyone who included puns in their daily conversation. Something that confused Dele since Becca managed a coffee shop called _The Lily Flat-White Coffee Shop_. Dele and John just wanted black coffee, something to aid with their obscene hangovers whilst Maguire and Marcus – someone John met last night – wanted some variations of lattes to sip on.

“Not this time. I have bruises all over me. _Bruises._ How did that even happen? Did I let people punch me, or something?” John asks.

“When I found you there were people licking alcohol off your face and squeezing your biceps. That’s probably why you’re so battered and bruised.” Dele laughs, clearing his throat as he went round to the nearest table to give Marcus and Maguire their drinks.

“You abandoned me for some pretty vampire. I had to entertain myself somehow.” John whines, slumping in his faux-fur coat as he settles further into the chair Becca had provided for him.

“You know, Stones. You’re gorgeous and all, but you’re fucking annoying, too. If you weren’t so pretty I’d have fired you by now.” Becca says.

“What?” John demands. “I do more than Dele. He just stands there giving out free cookies while I slave over the machine all day!”

“You’re the one who signed up for optional training. Literally the only one. Why would anyone else work the machine when you spent a weekend of your life at a training camp in Birmingham for baristas? It’s punishment for your bad choices,” Becca says. “Anyway. I only came in because John said he had juicy gossip about Dele’s love life.”

“Where did he say that?” Dele asks.

“Oh. Sorry, Del. I deleted you from the huge group chat last night to send the message and then added you back. I didn’t want you to know I was telling basically everybody about your fling with the guy from the bar.” John apologises, casting a sympathetic yet mischievous smile at Dele.

Dele groans. “Well, it’s not even gossip. It’s not like we snuck into the bathroom to get each other off, unlike some people,” he shamelessly looks at Maguire. Everyone in that room, even Marcus, knows what he and Fern got up to. “It was just nice, I guess.”

“So you just danced with him? He bought you a drink and you just danced?” Marcus asks.

“Well, no. Like. He bought me the drink so I went over. He started talking to me about _Twilight_ and asked if he could have my number. So I gave it to him. Then we danced, talked some more and we… sort of kissed.” Dele says, rushing the last part.

“He kissed you?” John asks. Dele stays silent. “Wait. You kissed _him_? Dele that is scandalous.”

“I was drunk and happy and he seemed really nice.”

“If people knew all they had to do to get you to kiss them is buy you a drink you would never have to spend a penny on alcohol ever again, Del.” Becca laughs, lips idly hovering over the rim of her drink.

“It was more than the alcohol you filthy girl. I do have standards,” Dele says. “But yeah, I kissed him. He just kept saying what the people in my dreams say. You know, when you dream of the person you want to be with. He was like that, in real life.”

“You did get his name, right?” Maguire asks.

Dele’s eyes roll. “Duh. It’s Eric.”

“Eric?” Marcus asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just… funny you kissed a guy called Eric in the club where the Spurs players are known to celebrate following a win,” Marcus chuckles, his laughter the only sound as the rest of the group all plant their eyes on Dele. “What? It was just… a comment. I don’t think Dele actually kissed Eric Dier.”

“I do!” John says, jumping from his seat despite his pounding headache.

“Did he tell you his surname?” Maguire asks.

“No… just said his name was Eric and that he had blue eyes and he and his friends were celebrating something in a VIP booth.” Dele rambled.

“Well… Spurs won their game yesterday.” Marcus says.

“And Eric Dier does have blue eyes.” Becca adds. Because of _course_ , she would know the colour of Dier’s eyes.

“Oh my… god…” John says.

“I kissed Eric Dier,” Dele declares. “Eric Dier has my number! Wait. I haven’t checked my phone this morning.”

Dele knew all five of them looked absolutely ridiculous as Dele dove to his bag in the staffroom, fingers digging through the compartment to pull out his phone. The four of them circled him, looking at him like he’d found pure gold hiding in the back of the coffee shop.

“Fuck,” Dele groans. “He’s texted me five times. Twice last night and three times this morning.”

“Well read them out then, you coward!” Becca _yells_. Dele knows she has hope in her heart to meet Harry Kane out of this awful turn of events.

“Okay, okay…” Dele clears his throat. “Last night he said… ‘Hey, it’s Eric, from the club’. Then he said ‘I had sooo much fun with you this evening. Hope to see you again soon’.”

“I can’t believe Eric Dier has your phone number.” Maguire mumbles.

“Then this morning… ‘Oh god I was so drunk last night’, then ‘sorry if I overstepped any boundaries I just really thought you were cute and now I’m worried you’re going to ghost me’ and then like… ten minutes ago ‘if you don’t want to ghost me though I’d love to take you out for lunch at some point.’” Dele recites, silence falling around him as he read each of the texts in their entirety. He reread them several times as the rest of the group processed the words, taking in each sentence and trying to mentally hear them in his voice. This was Eric _Dier_. Eric Dier who Jess, the little girl from earlier this week, called her favourite player. One of the newest signings at Tottenham who is expected to blow the team to new levels of success.

“Fuck, Del.” John says.

“I know.”

“What you going to do?” Maguire asks.

Dele looks back at his phone. “I don’t know… how did I not recognise him? He’s a world-famous footballer. I work next to his stadium. We play every single game that’s on TV!”

“You were drunk.” Becca provides.

“And he was dressed as a vampire. Alcohol and costumes don’t really work well together, you know?” Marcus supplies. It’s at that moment that Dele decides he likes Marcus.

“I didn’t even know he’s gay! Or just not straight, I guess.” Dele murmurs.

“I don’t think anyone does, babe.” Becca says, walking over to the counter as the door chimes, signifying a customer coming into the shop.

“Should I tell him to come here? Like… pick me up here before we go to lunch?” Dele asks.

“What makes you think you’re getting the afternoon off?” John interrupts.

“The fact that if this works out with Tottenham player I can make Becca’s wishes of meeting Harry Kane come true. What can you provide her? Shitty jokes and good coffee? She can get that anywhere.”

That hushes John up. Dele turns away from the group, feeling like he needs to be to himself as he thinks of how to compose the text to Eric. He starts by adding the number to his contact, using an apt ‘ _Eric Dier Footballer Maybe?_ ’ to sum up the situation at the moment.

**Hey! Nice to meet you yesterday. I’m not going to ghost, don’t worry! I’m actually at work right now. I work at Lily’s, coffee shop opposite Spurs stadium, if you know where that is? I go for lunch soon so if you come pick me up I’ll let you take me out x**

Dele debates adding the kiss and mentioning the Spurs stadium just in case that information turns Eric away from him completely. He doesn’t want to come on _too_ strong, obviously. But, sadly, he does happen to work right by the stadium and Eric would have realised that anyway after Dele sent his address. He adds the ‘if you know where that is’ to continue the façade of not knowing who Dier is and acting as if he hasn’t a clue what football is. A façade he knows will blow the minute Eric reads the name of the coffee shop.

It takes Eric a scarily short amount of time to answer.

_I know where that is. I’ll be there in twenty. Think I’ve been in that coffee shop before… see you shortly x_

“Oh, fuck,” Dele says audibly. “He’s going to be here in twenty minutes.”


	2. during the storm

Maguire had suggested the group ‘act natural’ for when Eric arrives. Dele didn’t know what that idea entailed, but it seemed a lot better than the other four just staring and ogling at the possible-famous-footballer when he walks through the door. Acting natural seemed good to Dele.

Until he saw what they were doing.

Dele rushed to the staff bathroom after he messaged Eric back, desperately washing his face and even finding toothpaste to brush his teeth again. When he woke up this morning he hadn’t even glanced at himself in the mirror, just tossed on some clothes that desperately needed a wash and headed out to catch the tube. Understandably, Dele hadn’t been expecting a text from a _really_ fit guy asking if he wanted to go out for lunch. If he’d even suspected that would be the case Dele would have pulled out the expensive aftershave his mum got him for Christmas.

Dele returns to the main area of the coffee shop to… an interesting scenario. Maguire and Marcus sat in one of the comfier booths the shop boasted, eyes falsely glazing over words printed in the daily newspaper. They flicked through the pages much too quickly to be actually reading the articles, and Dele thanked the heavens that neither of them were interested in becoming actors. John and Becca, on the other hand, fiddled about with the machines, twisting the different bits and pieces and intensely cleaning cups and containers as if they’d made a single drink so far that day. Given how utterly empty the coffee shop was, and had been since they’d opened, Dele knew they looked utterly unbelievable. Like something right out of an awful comedy film Adam Sandler stars in.

“This isn’t going to work… at all,” Dele says, fingertips nervously raking through his hair. “I mean… look at you absolute _losers_. You two are making a hundred coffees for zero customers. And you two… you two look like Jordan when he has to pretend to understand the reading for his lectures.”

Marcus mumbles a quiet, “who is Jordan?” as Dele pauses, and Maguire happily turns to start gushing about their ‘incredible’ roommate who ‘has more alcohol than blood’ running through his veins.

“You’re panicking.” John declares.

“No, I’m not. I’m just pointing out how awful this plan is.” Dele says.

John smiles. “Little Dele is panicking because he’s going on a lunch date and he hasn’t had any action in about a year. It’s cute.”

“And true.” Becca adds.

“Eric seems like a right lad, Dele,” Marcus offers. Somehow he’s become the voice of reason for their little group, always supplying useful comments and information rather than being annoying and teasing Dele in his momentary panic. “Like, in interviews and stuff. He seems really friendly. He has cute dogs, talks a lot about his family and Portugal. You shouldn’t panic.”

“Can we keep him?” Dele asks, over-dramatically sauntering over to Marcus to hug him from behind. “He’s more helpful than any of you have ever been in your entire lives.”

“I could have you kicked out, Dele,” John reminds, eyes looking to the door as the sound of a car arriving rattles the windows ever so slightly. “No more time to panic. Loverboy is here, it seems. In a really fancy car. Is that a Range Rover? Fuck, Del. He must be-”

Dele throws a handful of sugar cubes at John just as Eric pushes open the door. It’s almost as though the entrance to the shop is a threshold that summons silence the moment Eric crosses it. As if by magic everyone silences, immediately switching back to their ‘acting natural’ poses. Becca busies herself by pretending to organise cash in the till as John walks two cups of coffee to Maguire and Marcus, who chat quietly about the headline article on the newspaper they’re reading. It looks more believable than before, Dele will admit, but it’s still glaringly obvious that they’re a group of friends who were gossiping mere seconds before Eric arrived.

“Hey,” Eric starts the conversation, gently pulling Dele into a friendly hug when they meet in the middle of the coffee shop. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Morning. Or, well. Afternoon, I guess,” Dele corrects after glancing at the clock on the wall. “How are you?”

“I could lie and say I’m good. But I woke up in a bed that wasn’t my own this morning and have been battling a headache ever since. You?” Eric says, eyes leaking over to John who snickers underneath his breath. “I was going to be nice and play along with the joke when you pretend to not know everyone. But those lads are literally reading the newspapers upside down, so...”

“Same. Apart from not my own bed. I managed to find my way home,” Dele says, turning to look at John with an expression of pure annoyance and Maguire and Marcus with pure _disappointment_. “That’s John. He prefers to go by Stones. He’s the tall man you thought was my date. Really annoying most of the time, but he lets me pay rent late.”

Eric nods. “Nice to meet you.”

“That’s Becca,” Dele continues. Becca looks up and tosses Eric the most casual smile he’s ever seen. “She runs this place. Can go from loving you to hating you in about ten seconds. Fantasises about Harry Kane every day.”

Eric chuckles at Becca as she flicks her middle finger at Dele. “Nice to meet you.”

“Then you’ve got Maguire. His name is Harry but when we met him he accidentally introduced himself as Maguire Harry. Has a big forehead that you notice more the longer you look at him. His girlfriend has better banter than he does,” Dele says. Maguire looks like he wants to complain but, inside, knows the description is accurate. “Then that’s Marcus. I only met him this morning. He gives good advice and seems like someone who would walk you home if you get too drunk.”

“Maguire. Marcus. Sound lads.”

“And everyone. This is Eric.” Dele finishes, a gentle chorus of ‘hey, Eric’ filling the coffee shop.

“You guys look like you’ve just stepped out of an episode of _Friends_. And now I feel like Mark, really awkwardly arriving to break the group up and take one of them out to lunch.” Eric chuckles.

“Del, take the afternoon off. You’ve worked every shift this week, you deserve a break.” Becca smiles, ignoring John’s groans of distress.

“Thanks, Becs. You’re the best,” Dele says. “Shall we go?”

Eric nods, his hand finding its way to Dele’s back. Which is… definitely a new feeling. Either Eric is an extremely touchy person who doesn’t mind displays of affection with someone he met the evening before, or he clearly thinks the group in _Lily’s_ are trustworthy enough to not run to the press and sell a story about a secretly gay footballer.

Even as they step into the bitter chill of October Eric doesn’t let him go, rather tightens his grip as they cross the road to where the car had been parked. The leather seats feel too fancy as Dele relaxes his weight into them, shifting about as he takes in the exquisitely clean interior. Everything is black, sleek and matte from the seats to the dashboard to all of the controls. The only two things that show the car has been used and hasn’t just been taken from the showroom are the solar-powered dancing sunflower toy on the dashboard and the lavender scented, football-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. Dele thinks they’re cute additions to the car, little flashes of Eric’s personality in something that otherwise appears to be the epitome of wealth and professionalism.

“So… where are we heading, then?” Dele asks. “If you take me to a coffee shop I may have to leave. Can’t be fraternising with the rivals.”

That makes Eric chuckle. Dele decides he wants to make Eric laugh every day for the rest of his life. “No. I’m not going to take you to a coffee shop, don’t worry. There’s a little pub called the _Ferry Boat_ by the reservoirs. It’s always quiet on Sunday’s. The lads and I go there all the time.”

Dele knows ‘the lads’ are other Tottenham players, but there is still reluctance for Eric to name them. Dele doesn’t blame Eric for not wanting to start the conversation with mentions of his work. He imagines that Eric has come across a lot of people in his life who are only interested in him because he’s a footballer and people who have been turned off from him because of that fact. He guesses it must be quite exhausting trying to maintain a normal life with the knowledge that most people Eric comes across are probably just wanting to use him for money or something else like that.

“Can’t beat a pub lunch.” Dele agrees.

During the drive Eric’s left-hand finds itself placed on Dele’s thigh. His eyes stay focused on the road but his fingertips trace masterpieces on the surface of Dele’s jeans. Dele tries to act unbothered, as if the unexpected actions of intimacy aren’t completely blowing his mind, but he can’t help how he keeps looking down at his leg, double-checking that this is actually happening to him. The drive takes about fifteen minutes, Eric pulling into an almost empty parking lot a little distance away from the pub. The inn is right on the waterside, the gentle lapping of water intermingling with the sound of their footsteps crunching on leaves as the two of them walk towards the pub. The building looks old and friendly, the framework oozing comfort and promises of friendly faces and good food. The outside seating area is abandoned, benches empty as the cool October air whips around the menus stood between salt and pepper shakers. Dele can understand why nobody is sat outside, his teeth quietly chattering until they enter the pub.

The _Ferry Boat_ epitomises pub culture, Dele thinks. There are men at the bar sipping on beers as they converse with the workers. Small families with young children huddle in the corner, hands rubbing together as they warm themselves up in preparation for their food. The lights are slightly dim, casting friendly orange glows over the faces of all the patrons. Dele doesn’t feel an ounce of intimidation. He expected to feel constantly on his toes under the knowledge he’s having a public lunch with a footballer, but nobody seems to notice. Some bartenders even leave delicate smiles in their direction, Eric waving back in a way that indicates to Dele how frequently the Spurs lads must come here.

“I come here a lot,” Eric answers Dele’s unspoken question, almost sensing Dele’s thoughts. “I have dogs. I like to walk them around here. They like the sound of the water.”

And, _oh_. That might be the sweetest thing Dele has ever heard in his life. He nods, a smile developing as he follows Eric to a table with a view of the water. There are ducks and other birds huddled on the bank, preserving their warmth as they endure the sharp breezes whipping around their feathers.

“This is a really cute place. I can see why your dogs like it.” Dele says.

“It’s little gems like this that make you forget you’re in London, you know? It’s great being in the capital and all that, but the people can be a bit suffocating. I like coming out and grounding myself,” Eric explains. “That makes me sound like some really weird nature geek. I just like the outside.”

“Nah, it’s cute,” Dele smiles. “It’s hard to slow down in such a fast-paced place. Always loud, always bright. It never stops, does it?”

“Guess that’s why fools like us love it here.” Eric grins.

“I’d say cheers to that but we don’t have drinks,” Dele says, peeling open the menu so he can actually look at what he wants to have. “It’s all very expensive, isn’t it? I’m not earning enough to live in London.”

“Guess it helps that I’m paying,” Eric adds. “I know you’re more of a cocktail person, if what you were drinking last night is anything to go off. But I don’t think they serve anything that fancy here.”

“I only drink cocktails because they’re expensive and it stops me spending absurd amounts of money on alcohol. I haven’t done a load of laundry in about a week because I can’t afford the local laundrette prices. I should not be spending more money than necessary on alcohol, and cocktails do that for me.” Dele says. He immediately regrets it. He essentially just told _really-fit-footballer_ that he’s wearing dirty clothes and is a cheapskate. A really good impression.

Eric laughs it off though, hand finding Dele’s knee underneath the table. He gives it a reassuring squeeze, wrapping Dele’s heart with warmth and safety, before slipping off to the bar to place their order. As Eric is gone Dele risks a look at his phone, eyes rolling as he sees the first text on his screen.

**John Pebbles: if this goes well u should film another sextape**

**John Pebbles: it’ll do so much better than your first one!!!**

Dele ignores the messages.

He looks up just as Eric returns, two glasses in his hands and a receipt fluttering between his lips. He places the glasses down on the flimsy coasters, arm resting around the back of the Dele’s chair as he sits back down. Eric looks at Dele with a smile. It makes Dele feel really warm inside and he decides at that moment this is going to be the best first date he’s ever had.

“So you’re an outdoorsy person?” Dele asks. He hates the idea of small talk and isn’t about to sacrifice precious seconds of his time with Eric asking the boring type of questions he’s heard in the past. He doesn’t care what Eric’s usual type is or what his favourite colour is. For all Dele knows he could leave this pub and never see Eric ever again. He’d rather have some meaningful conversations than come away knowing Eric likes dogs more than cats.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely,” Eric says following a sip of his drink. “I love it. I spent a lot of time in Portugal growing up. I was always outside, always exercising. I just get a rush whenever I’m in the open air. It’s a lot harder to find clean air when you’re in the capital of pollution. But I make it work.”

“Portugal? That’s so cool. A lot more interesting than Milton Keynes.” Dele smiles.

“I’m sure those places are a lot similar than you think, Dele.” Eric says. Dele melts at the way his name sounds coming from Eric’s lips. He thinks he’d like to record it and play it over and over again. Then he realises how utterly creepy that would be and the idea leaves his mind immediately.

“I mean… Portugal and Milton Keynes both share a couple of letters? Otherwise, I’d much prefer to be in Portugal,” Dele laughs, letting himself sink further into the warmth and comfort of Eric. Eric’s arms have moved a little more now, fingertips brushing the curve of Dele’s neck as he listens with such intent to every word Dele utters. “Why did you move?”

Eric pauses. “For work,” he eventually says. “A better job opportunity came here a few months ago. I’ve not been here very long. But it’s not too bad. Why’d you leave Milton Keynes?”

Dele decides to not ask about work quite yet. He senses Eric trying to avoid the conversation as much as possible, and he’d rather respect that than risk beginning a conversation Eric doesn’t want to have. “I thought I could break into the fashion industry. I like clothes. Not like… designing, I guess. More like styling and modelling and all that. Hasn’t gone too well so far, if you couldn’t tell. Working in a coffee shop doesn’t necessarily scream worldwide model, but. You never know when the big break will come.”

“Fashion is a cool industry. I have a lot of friends who go to shows sometimes. They think they’re all high and mighty wearing big brands but they all look like idiots,” Eric laughs, smiling up at a waitress who brings them their meals. They exchange friendly conversation, first names being used, before she ushers off back behind the bar. “Fashion is one of those industries that rich kids pretend to like to look cool, you know? They wear big labelled brands but it looks shit.”

“Oh, totally,” Dele agrees. “It’s not about what you wear, it’s about how you wear it. You can be decked head to toe in Gucci and look like a mess but wear a combination of charity store bought clothes and… like… Primark, and look like you’ve stepped off a runway.”

“Very true.”

“However,” Dele continues, pausing as he takes a forkful of his food. “You are currently wearing an Alexander McQueen coat, babe.”

 _Babe._ Dele knows he should not have said that.

“Are you saying I look like a mess of designer labels? I’m offended.” Eric jokes.

“You’re putting words in my mouth. I’m just making an observation.” Dele leans a little closer as their conversation progresses, relishing the grin that spreads over Eric’s face.

“I look good in this coat.”

“I never said you didn’t.”

“So… you’re saying I do?” Eric pushes.

Dele rolls his eyes. “You know you look good in the coat, Eric.”

Then Eric is kissing him again. Dele didn’t realise he and Eric had moved _that_ close. But the space between them was nothing. Dele felt so drawn to Eric, like some magnet tugging him to this random person he’d met just over twelve hours ago. It terrified him, how smooth and enjoyable every second of the day was.

Part of Dele froze, telling him to _break_ apart and breathe and have an ounce of sense. But another part, a bigger part, scolded him. Said to enjoy his day and let everything happen. He was William in front of Anna. He didn’t know when Eric would vanish, if he ever did. There was no point overthinking everything as if each move was a tick closer to being married, or something like that.

So Dele kisses him back. Eric’s hand moves to cradle the back of Dele’s neck, his fingertips a warm and safe presence as Dele internally panics and almost forgets how to breathe. Dele doesn’t know how long they do… _that_. But it feels like a short eternity, one Dele doesn’t want to end.

It does eventually. As Eric pulls back and smiles at him, a whisper of joy and contentment slipping through his intense gaze. “You’re really open.” Dele says.

Eric’s head tilts to the side. “Open?”

“Like… about this.” Dele gestures between the two of them. As best he can, given how close they are to each other.

“Why shouldn’t I be open?”

They both know the reason. Dele doesn’t want to say it though. He just clears his throat and looks down into his lap. Eric sighs next, leaning back to rest against the chair though his arm doesn’t leave its place around Dele’s shoulders.

“So… you know?” Eric asks.

“I literally work opposite the stadium. Wouldn’t you be more surprised if I didn’t know?” Dele says.

Eric cracks a smile. “True,” he says. “Have you known all along?”

“No. No, no,” Dele rambles. “I had no idea last night. The contacts and the lights and the alcohol kind of threw me off. It was Marcus, actually, who worked it out.”

Eric nods. “Okay…”

“So I’m not, like, here for your money or status or anything like that, if that’s what you’re thinking. In fact, I almost panicked and said don’t come because I thought you’d-”

Eric cuts him off with another kiss. Dele doesn’t complain. He plans to just ramble for as long as he can if it means Eric will shut him up like this. “You talk too much,” Eric says. “I didn’t think you were here for any of that. Shush.”

“Oh… okay.”

“It freaks people out. That was my worry. If they aren’t interested in the money they’re worried about the press. And, obviously, you can kind of tell why people worry more when they’re with me.” Eric explains. Dele nods; they don’t need to vocalise the exact reasons. The fact they’re curled in a private corner of an almost abandoned pub explains it pretty well.

“Well, I’m not freaked out,” Dele shrugs. “I’m just… surprised? I guess?”

“Surprised?” Eric asks.

“That you’re here with me? And that you’re so trusting of me when you’ve known me for less than a day.”

“I like to think I’m good at reading people,” Eric jokes. “Normally I can tell if someone recognises me and is pretending they don’t. But yesterday… you looked so fucking lost I knew you were clueless. And then this morning you responded and even now, you’re being very normal. I know I can trust you. Or at least I hope I can.”

“Oh, you can. You definitely can.” Dele assures.

“Good,” Eric smiles. “Because I’m having too much of a good time to not want to see you again.”

⸙

Eric drops Dele back at his flat a few hours later. They chat in the bar, giggle over drinks and walk around the edge of the reservoir to work off their lunch. Eric talks about his dogs, his family, his friends and everything else that makes his heart swell. He mentions events and places he wants to visit and slips Dele’s name into the conversation as if he plans to bring him along. Every minute that passes Dele feels his wall drop an inch, letting Eric see him with clearer vision. Eric talks about wanting to bring Dele here when he walks his dogs and Dele suggests Eric come to the flat to watch the shitty romance films Dele won’t shut up about.

It’s all so natural. So scarily natural that Dele can’t process it.

Eric kisses him on his cheek when they pull up outside the complex. Dele offers a cup of tea but Eric mentions something about needing to go and see Harry Kane – because, _of course_ , this guy is best friends with Becca’s ultimate crush – and promises to come by another time.

As Dele steps out the car he can see John watching them from the window, a rectangular cut-out of his eyes visible between the blinds. Dele grins. He gives Eric one last wave, waiting until he’s driven away to start the climb to the flat. John tackles him the minute he steps through the door, fingers spreading out over Dele’s skin to look for marks or some sort of sign of _intimate_ action.

“Fuck off, Pebbles,” Dele whines, swatting John’s fingers away. “He hasn’t branded me with his name, you twat. How easy do you think I am?”

“If I went on a date with a footballer there’s no way I’d come back unmarked.” John declares. There’s laughter behind him, sounding in the recognisable tone of Jordan Pickford’s giggles. The whole gang is there. Fern lying over Maguire’s legs, eyes glued to her phone, Pickford sandwiched between Marcus and Becca on their tiny sofa in the corner. They all hold, or have near them, initial-embossed mugs, little tokens of their friendship that twine them together as a whole. The room is warm and buzzing with friendship: Dele can’t think of anybody else he’d rather come back to in the evenings.

“So… I checked where you were on Snapmaps,” Becca starts. “Some pub by the reservoirs? Looked cute and very isolated.”

“You’re such a stalker, Becs,” Dele says, sitting himself down on the only remaining seat in the room. As if it had been meticulously prepared, John hands Dele a piping hot mug, the sweet smell of chocolate filtering through the plumes of smoke bubbling from the surface. “But yeah, a pub. Said he goes there all the time with the other players and to walk his dogs.”

“See, I told you about the dogs.” Marcus adds.

“He’s just… so normal. I never expected someone like him to be so normal, you know? You always hear about how idiotic and dim footballers are. Cheating, selfish and all that. But I didn’t get any of those vibes. He recommended some good food to me, took me on a walk. It was weirdly nice for a first date.” Dele explains.

“You’ve only dated proper weirdos though, Del,” Maguire says. “That one bloke who always chewed a toothpick and covered his lap with cling film before eating, remember him? Your standards are atrociously low.”

“Okay, that’s a fair point.” Dele says.

“Did you talk about the whole, you know, him being a footballer who we think is gay thing?” John asks, eyes glued to his mug as he dunks a biscuit into his tea.

“Yeah,” Dele says. “It came up eventually. He was really chill about it. Said I looked so clueless yesterday he knew I didn’t recognise him at all. He likes the fact I know Spurs but didn’t dance with him just because I recognised him.”

“None of you are asking the important question,” Pickford adds. “Did he ask you out again?”

Dele pauses. “We might be going out for dinner later this week.”

“Fuck,” John says. “I’m going to be surrounded by three lovesick animals now, aren’t I?”

⸙

They text every day. They call most days. Eric comes round twice the next week. They get papped together, headlines reading ‘ _Eric Dier and friend_ ’. Dele smiles whenever there is a photograph of them; he screenshots most of them and always sends Eric a message about how they’re just _friends_.

Eric tends to reply with _friends who help each other undress?_ most of the time.

Dele thinks he’s falling in love. The idea doesn’t terrify him as much anymore.

⸙

Eric takes Dele to a pumpkin patch on the twenty-second. It’s a small farm on the outskirts of London, hidden between motorways and single-track lanes that people wouldn’t know exists unless they looked carefully. Eric is wearing the most expensive looking boots Dele thinks he’s ever seen in his entire life, wrapped head to toe in fine materials. Ever since the date at the pub Eric hadn’t brought the Alexander McQueen coat with him. Dele hopes it isn’t because of his comments about rich kids wearing obnoxious brands. So as Eric wears expensive boots and the finest looking faux-fur jacket Dele thinks he’s ever seen, Dele wears a coat he can’t ever remember washing and shoes he stole from John without his permission.

Dele likes how the two of them contrast.

They walk with their hands loosely interlinked, fingers curling and uncurling around each other’s as they move up and down the different lines of pumpkins. The two of them aren’t really paying attention, Dele doesn’t even think they’ll end up buying pumpkins, but it’s nice to just have the two of them again. Dele _loves_ having Eric around the flat, binging _Sixteen Candles_ and talking about how bland the plot is while John and Maguire cook them up a stir-fry. It feels sweet to have his friends interacting with someone he really likes. But Dele knows that as he and Eric curl up in the seat too small for two that the lads are all peering over at them, secretly watching and observing their movements.

But here, just him and Eric idly basking in each other’s warmth, there’s none of that. Dele even leans up to kiss Eric’s cheek, revelling in the lack of quiet gasps that often surround their acts of intimacy with the lads around. Eric tightens his grip on Dele, edging him that _little_ bit closer as they turn and walk down another line of pumpkins.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring your dogs,” Dele says. “This seems like something they’d enjoy.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t bring them,” Eric laughs. “They’d enjoy it so much they’d destroy all the pumpkins. They can hardly manage new toys, I’d weep to imagine the rascals around all these ball-shaped objects.”

“That is a very fair point.” Dele replies.

“Isn’t it weird how we’ve known each other five days but I can’t imagine being here with anyone else?” Eric says.

“God,” Dele laughs. “I need to stop showing you romance films. You’re turning into a rom-com character, Dier.”

Eric rolls his eyes, a hint of a smile growing across his face. “You’re complaining about the guy you’re dating turning into a film character?”

 _Guy you’re dating_. Dele’s heart burns. “Yes, in fact, I am. Because romance films always have a moment of pain and the more you turn into Anna from _Notting Hill_ the more I’m expecting to find out you have a secret fiancé you haven’t told me about who is flying to see your next game.”

Eric stops them. Stops them in the middle of the patch and pulls Dele onto his tiptoes so he can kiss him. It’s sickeningly romantic, and Dele _loves_ it. “No secret fiancé. And no moment of sadness. I can guarantee there’s a film out there that doesn’t have the lovers breaking up half-way through.”

“Name one then.” Dele challenges, fingertips fiddling with the delicate knit-work of Eric’s hat.

Eric pauses as he thinks, mentally sifting through every film he’d watched with Dele. “ _Age of Adaline_?”

Dele replays the film in his mind. “She nearly runs away on the guy she likes. And, anyway, that whole film is sad. Adaline is always running away from who she was and she nearly dies like… twice.”

“But do they ever technically, officially break up?” Eric replies.

“Okay… no. I guess. That still doesn’t really prove your point though, love.” Dele smiles, pressing his lips the curve of Eric’s neck.

“It does,” Eric murmurs. “But even if it doesn’t, we can be the anomaly. We can be the love story that never breaks up.”

“Fucking hell,” Dele laughs, pressing his hands to Eric’s cheeks as he descends from his tiptoes. “You can’t be real. I’m still not convinced I’m not just dreaming this whole situation.”

Eric blows in Dele’s face, a little puff of breath that forces him to blink. “Would that affect you in a dream? I doubt it. I’m real, you’re real. Now _please_ , stop making me say romantic things. I feel like a Nicholas Sparks protagonist in the making.”

Dele laughs, twining his fingers with Eric’s again as they continue walking. “So are you wanting to buy a pumpkin, then? Or did you just bring me out here for a nice walk down some farmer’s fields?”

“I figured we could get some and carve them together? If you want to. Your flat and my house are a bit… lacking in Halloween decorations, considering it’s in just over a week.” Eric suggests.

“Oh, that’s adorable,” Dele says. “I’ve never been on such good dates. Most of the time I go watch a really awful film, drink some cheap beer from a really dodgy bar and then finish the night reeking of sex and regret.”

“Perk of dating someone who tries to avoid popular places, I guess?” Eric says. “Not that I’m, like, hiding you.”

“I know. I didn’t think you meant hiding me.” Eric kisses Dele’s cheek in response, eyes glazing over the lines of pumpkins rather than _just_ at Dele.

Eric crouches down, hands sifting through the leaves and the pumpkins to find one that satisfies him most. “Well, get down here, then. I can’t pick your pumpkin for you.”

“If you were a true Nicholas Sparks character you would.” Dele teases.

“Ugh,” Eric groans. “It’s lucky you’re so pretty, Del.”

“You love it really,” Dele says.

Eric chuckles in response, eyes not meeting Dele’s as they both kneel to search among the greenery.

⸙

They end up buying two pumpkins, a basket of decorations and a pounds worth of freshly picked apples from the farm. The owner recognises Eric, and Dele takes a photo of the two of them, smiling behind the camera as Eric beams and points a finger at the farmer. They talk for a few minutes about how much they enjoyed their time at the farm, dishing out compliments about the selection of activities.

As they walk away Eric doesn’t keep a hand on Dele. Dele pretends it doesn’t bother him.

They order takeout when they get back to Eric’s house, Dele rolling around with the dogs in their designated room while Eric sets up the living room for their pumpkin carving session. Their timing is immaculate, Eric calling Dele back into the living room just as the delivery man arrives at the door. Dele offers to go and collect the food, shuffling down to the door with one of Eric’s too-big jumpers covering him.

“Trent?”

“Dele, what the fuck are you doing here?” Trent says, brown bags hanging between his fingertips. His eyes are wide in shock, helmet haphazardly half-on, half-off his head.

“I’m here with a few friends. Movie night.” Dele lies.

“Two meals is enough for a group of friends?” Trent teases.

Dele prays that Eric didn’t leave his actual name on the UberEats receipt. “Okay… I’m here with a friend.”

“Must be a rich friend.”

“Fucking hell. I have no idea how Stones endures you,” Dele chuckles, yanking the paper bags from Trent’s fingers. “I thought you only delivered in the East? This is, like, really far away from my flat.”

Trent shrugs, Liverpool accent thick as he speaks. “Switched locations with a mate for the evening. Does John know you’re here?”

“Of course he knows.” Dele says. He hears Eric’s footsteps creeping down the hallway and instinctively closes the door behind him a little. Trent, though a good friend mostly, has a ridiculously big mouth. There is no doubt in Dele’s mind that if Trent sees Eric he’d pop off in the endless number of group chats he’s a part of about Dele fraternising with a footballer.

“What’re you hiding, Del?”

“Trent. You’re eighteen. It’s Thursday. Isn’t six in the evening way past your bedtime?” Dele says, gently edging back into the house.

“I’ll find out who’s in there, Dele. You know I always do.” Then Trent winks, gives Dele a mock salute and jogs all the way back down to his bike.

Dele exhales a deep sigh of relief as he turns and shuts the door behind him, eyes closing as he leans back and relaxes. Then there’s warmth in front of him, little bubbles of breath dancing over his cheeks as Eric clearly comes close.

“That took a very long time.” Eric quietly says.

“Mmm,” Dele murmurs. “Some kid I know. He’s the one who invited Stones and me to the party, actually.”

“Oh, Trent?” Eric says.

Dele’s eyes _burst_ open. “What the fuck. You know Trent?”

“Everybody knows Trent. He has a seat at the VIP table wherever we go because he’s so chill.” Eric explains.

“Does he know this is your house?” Dele asks.

Eric shakes his head. “No, I’m not going to tell a uni student where I live, Del. He’s just good company.”

“What is it with you twenty-two years olds being besties with a child?” Dele mutters.

Eric laughs. He kisses Dele before taking the paper bags and going back to the living room to set up their food. As Dele joins him he smiles at the set-up of the room. The coffee table is covered in old newspaper spreads, sheltering the fine oak from the insides of the pumpkins they were about to carve. Eric dimmed the lights ever so slightly, dogs snoozing on their beds as _Love, Rosie_ waited to be played on the television. Eric sorts the food out onto the respective plates as Dele wraps himself in a blanket, sipping on the drink Eric had _kindly_ made him when they got back.

“We haven’t seen this one, right?” Eric asks, gesturing to the screen.

Dele shakes his head. “Nah, not yet. Heard it’s meant to be cute though.”

Eric nods as he sits next to Dele, handing him a small box full of pumpkin carving tools. “I have a lot of kids in my life. I’ve spent more hours than necessary carving pumpkins.” He explains, sensing Dele’s confusion at the expanse of Eric’s collection.

“Oh, good. I’m glad that’s the case. Otherwise, I’d be really concerned at how many knives you have in your home.” Dele jokes, finding a knife he isn’t intimidated by as Eric resumes the film and they watch, eat and cut in silence.

Every few minutes Dele has to ask for Eric’s help, his arms aching from all the scooping and sawing. He really doesn’t have the arms for this. Dele knows he’s the personification of a chopstick, all fragile bones and soft skin rather than muscle and strength. He blames his weakness on the fact he never drank milk as a kid. No calcium, no strong bones. Eric just smiles whenever Dele nudges his side, scooting ever closer to scrape the inside of the pumpkins clean.

“You need to come to the gym with me.” Eric says one of the times.

Dele shakes his head, lips leaving a ghost of a kiss on Eric’s cheek. “Never in your wildest dreams, sunshine.”

He sickens himself, he really does. He’s sat in someone’s living room, cocktail sparkling over his lips and pumpkin guts smeared over newspaper articles that mention him as ‘ _elusive stranger_ ’. It’s bizarre, really. When he looks over at Eric, eyebrows pulled together as he concentrates on both the film and the carving, Dele feels _lucky_. Lucky to have found someone he clicks with so easily. He hasn’t known Eric a week yet he can’t imagine his days without Eric’s sparkling smile and sultry words.

“Why’re you staring at me?” Eric asks, flicking a pumpkin seed at Dele’s face.

Dele doesn’t answer, just basically _dives_ across the space to kiss Eric. Eric falls back onto the floor, his faux fur rug a gentle support as Dele’s weight overcomes him. Dele thinks someone has possessed him, taken over every part of his being to lace his life with love that he so desperately wants to give to Eric. Eric’s arms lazily wrap around Dele’s back, fingertips teasing the hem of his t-shirt. Dele doesn’t know what he’s expecting to happen or what he even _wants_ to happen. He just knows that at the moment, pressed impossibly close to Eric, he is incredibly happy.

“I really like you.” Dele eventually says.

“Huh?” Eric asks, dazed and confused.

“I like you, a lot,” Dele continues. “I like doing everything with you. I can imagine doing everything with you for a very long time.”

Eric laughs. “Are you about to propose to me?”

Dele rolls his eyes, peppering kisses over Eric’s face. “No. You better take me to Paris or Rome if you want that from me, love,” he says. “I just want you to know I’m enjoying this. A lot.”

“So am I.” Eric smiles.

Dele nods. He’s somehow sat on top of Eric, Eric’s fingers brushing up and down his sides while Dele just looks. Takes in the contours of Eric’s face and the happiness bubbling in his eyes. Yeah, he thinks, he’s pretty lucky. He could be even _luckier_ if he manages to spit the words out that teased the tip of his tongue. “You haven’t shown me your bedroom yet.”

Eric raises an eyebrow. “Are you wanting to see my bedroom?” He asks.

Dele pauses. He takes Eric’s hands off his sides and laces their fingers together instead. “Yeah, I am.”

“Okay,” Eric says, sitting up so they’re facing each other. Dele keeps his legs around Eric, their noses almost touching and alcohol-infused breath spiralling together between them. “I have a question, though. Technically two.”

Dele nods. “Okay… don’t leave me hanging.”

Eric smiles. “So,” he starts. “We have a game at Arsenal this weekend. First part of my question. Do you want to come see the game? In, like, VIP seats and all that? Can bring John and your friends if you want.”

“Really?” Dele smiles. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

“Good. I’ll get some seats for you. Second part,” Eric continues. “Do you maybe want to go to the game as my boyfriend?”

Dele’s smile grows. “Do I get to keep the title after you win?” He asks.

Eric laughs, pressing a chaste kiss to Dele’s lips. “Of course you do.”

“Then yeah,” Dele answers. “I’d love to go to your game as your boyfriend. And then keep being it afterwards.”

Eric nods, eyes flicking to behind Dele to look at the TV. The film just ends, Rosie and the boy she’s loved for years having finally sussed out their feelings about each other to live happily ever after. It was a cute film, Dele admits. A bit sad at points, but good for the most part. He’s glad that he and Eric skipped the lifelong friendship section, if he’s honest.

“So,” Eric interrupts Dele’s thoughts, the television off and silence in the room. “Bedroom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff!!!! last part should be out before halloween :-)  
> tumblr: johnstnes


	3. after the storm

Dele wakes up tangled in silk sheets that smell of lavender mixed with tangerine. They’re sickeningly white and the creases fall right out as Dele shuffles under the covers. He isn’t used to waking up with a body next to his, but he thinks he could get used it. Eric has streaks of sunlight painted over his cheeks, glistening with essences of gold as the beams sliver through the barely-shut curtains.

Dele rolls onto one side, fingers gently brushing a morning frown off Eric’s lips as he reluctantly wakes up. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I have to be in work in thirty minutes. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to be late.” Dele says, smiling as Eric presses soft kisses to the palm of his hand.

“Really? You’re choosing work over me?” Eric murmurs.

Dele laughs, quiet and soft and full of joy. “Not work. I’m choosing paying my rent and not getting kicked out of my apartment over you. But I’m going to see you soon anyway. I hope.”

“I’ll drive you,” Eric says, arms stretching over his head as he sits up and forces himself out of the lull of calming sleep. “You keep mentioning how your Oyster card won’t work. It’ll be nice to see the others, too.”

“You sure? The shop is sort of… out of your way.” Dele says.

“Do you not want me to drive you, Del?”

Dele frowns a little. “Of course I do.”

“Good,” Eric says. “Only if I get free breakfast and coffee, though. The muffins you guys serve are amazing.”

⸙

The warmth of _Lily’s_ washes over Dele as he and Eric walk in to shelter from the soft rain falling from the sky. Dele can’t remember a day where it hasn’t rained since he met Eric. Usually, his cynical mind would interpret the rain as a negative omen but as he looks up at Eric, head shaking off the cool and the rain with a smile spreading from cheek to cheek as he sees John behind the counter, Dele knows it’s not a sign.

“Have you forgotten how to answer phone calls, Delboy?” John says, throwing a towel across the shop aimed at Dele’s head. “Swear I’ve sent you about thirty texts and tried to ring you seven times. And you just… decided to not answer. If I didn’t have lover boy over there telling me you were staying at his for the night I would’ve filed a missing person’s report.”

“Wait… you two text each other?” Dele asks, pressing a kiss to Eric’s cheek as he passes him to pick up an apron from the rack.

“Course,” Eric answers, thanking John as he is handed a freshly made cup of coffee. “Your friends are cool, babe. John also worries a lot. Thinks I’m going to abandon you in the middle of a field. I have to give him hourly updates.”

“Oh,” Dele sighs. “That’s why you’re always on your phone when we’re together. Makes a lot more sense. I thought… you know. Never mind.” He chuckles.

“No, no. You thought what?” Eric asks, leaning on the counter to look Dele in the eye.

“Don’t be, like, mad,” Dele starts. “I always thought you were talking to someone else, I guess? I mean. Now I know you weren’t and it makes me happy, but the thought did cross my mind.”

Eric frowns a little. Dele can see how he is trying to process the comment and formulate his own response. In the meantime, much to Dele’s _joy_ , Eric leans across the counter to kiss him. It’s different to what Dele is used to, feelings of determination and validation blooming in the way Eric presses intensely against him. “I’m sorry.”

“What? Why are you sorry?” Dele asks.

“Because you couldn’t trust me. You thought I was texting other people when we were on dates. That’s sort of shitty on my behalf.” Eric says, voice quiet as he tries to keep the conversation between them and not everyone else around the shop.

“Is this our rom-com moment of sadness?” Dele murmurs.

Eric smiles. “Yes. And it’s already over.”

“Okay. I’m glad,” Dele says, nudging his nose against Eric’s. “Anyway. I have to work. I’ll text you later?”

“Yeah. Course.” Eric beams, as always. He smells of honey and coffee as they kiss one last time, Eric waving to the group in the shop as he walks back out to his car. There is a moment of silence as everyone adjusts to the environment without Eric. Underneath the relationship with Dele and how Eric has become a huge part of their group in the short time he’s been around, everyone still felt star struck at the fact he plays for Tottenham.

“You know… I’m so annoyed I wasn’t invited to the super important party with Spurs players,” Becca breaks the silence. “I mean… this could be me right now. Loved up with Harry Kane.”

“Isn’t he married?” John adds.

“Fuck _off_ , Pebbles.”

“So you stayed the night, then?” Maguire asks, looking over at Dele with knowing and curious eyes.

Dele nods. “Yup. We went pumpkin picking, came back. Had takeout and then… stayed the night.”

“Love how you’re being vague as if there isn’t the biggest love bite on your neck, Del. I appreciate your determination to hide.” John cackles, coming over to investigate Dele’s neck as if they were transported back to secondary school when something like _snogging_ was considered scandalous.

“Hate you.” Dele mutters, tilting his head to the side so John can get a proper look.

“So… I’m assuming he was on the top?”

“Oh my, god. No. We aren’t having this conversation right now. I’m never having this conversation with you. I’ve known this guy less than a week. I’m not disclosing any information about our sex life to you or anybody else.” Dele rambles, a peachy blush creeping up his cheeks as he shudders away from John.

“That means yes.”

“You’re uninvited.”

John drags his eyebrows together. “To what?”

“The game this weekend.”

“What game?”

“Spurs are playing Arsenal. He asked me to come watch and said I could bring you lot. But you’re all uninvited.” Dele says.

“Hey!” Becca yells. “Why does John’s shitty attitude get me uninvited? I’ve been nothing but casual about him and you and the fact your dates keep making you miss half your shifts.”

“If you come you guys have to act, you know, normal. No screeching or acting weird. We’re going as friends of the player.” Dele says.

John looks like he’s about to faint, Maguire is already texting Fern the information and Becca… Well. Becca looks like she has stars in her eyes. Stars cut into the shape of little Harry Kane’s.

⸙

To say Dele is nervous when it comes to match day is an understatement. It’s a one-thirty kick-off, meaning Dele doesn’t even have a chance to talk to Eric in any way before the game. They hadn’t had time to see each other _in person_ the last two days, only managing to slip in bits and pieces of conversation between their busy schedules. The closest Dele had been to seeing Eric is having to pop over to his house to pick up the tickets that had been reserved for the group. Eric wasn’t there, though, busy doing some training or press or something else that came as part of the job as a professional footballer.

(Dele may have snuck into Eric’s bedroom to steal some jumpers, but what Eric didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.)

As they travel to the Emirates Dele does text Eric, wishing him good luck and sending a photo of the whole group on the tube. He feels a little ridiculous doing so knowing Eric most likely wouldn’t see the message until after the game, but he thinks his heart is in the right place.

The Emirates is busy and loud and full of fans wearing red and white shirts. There are vendors outlining the perimeter of the stadium, attempting to sell knock-off merchandise that would fall apart within seconds of being worn. Families were taking photos, groups of bachelors were buying drinks and it all reminded Dele how he hadn’t been to a football game in _ages_. He’d forgotten how the atmosphere clung desperately to the air, oozing around the stadium and filtering into conversations between fans as everyone walks to their designated seat.

“Not as nice as the Spurs stadium, is it?” John says, earning a glare from a child in an Arsenal shirt who walks past them just at that moment. Dele has banned their group from wearing any clothing that indicates what team they’re here to support. No scarves, no shirts. Nothing like that. Dele knows they’ll be seated among other Tottenham fans, but still, he’s uncomfortably aware that they don’t belong in fancy, hospitality seats and he doesn’t want to draw more attention to them than is necessary.

They find their way to the hospitality seats eventually, looking a little lost as they ask several volunteers and workers where their entrance is. Dele feels a little touristy as he looks around the box where they’re sitting. Everywhere he turns he sees a face that he recognises, someone who has probably been in the news recently, talking to other well-known people over sips of extortionately priced champagne. At the bar, he can see the wives and girlfriends of Spurs players, their faces recognisable from magazine articles that Dele’s read over the last few months.

“I could get used to this,” Becca says, returning to the group with a glass of wine in one hand and a bag of roasted peanuts in the other. “This expensive life. It’s great.”

“Becca… I have no words.” Dele says, trying to focus on her comment about _getting used to this_. He plays the words over and looks back to the ‘wags’ – Dele has always hated that title – wondering if they’re used to this lifestyle. Whether the extremely good treatment that comes as a result of just knowing one of the players ever becomes a part of normality for them. Dele doesn’t think he could ever just accept the fact he’s given free tickets and expensive food just because he sleeps in the same bed as Eric. It’s a foreign lifestyle, Dele thinks, one that freaks him out a little.

“That’s Harry Kane’s wife.” Becca whispers, gesturing with her bag of peanuts to one of the women at the bar.

“You’re not allowed to talk to her. Seriously, Becs. If you go anywhere near her I’ll call security on you.”

“Chill, Del. What are you so uptight about?” John asks. “You’re acting like we’ve broken into some fancy place and are going to get kicked out if we get caught. We have as much right to be here as everyone else. You’re technically a wag. Or, I guess… a hab? Husbands and boyfriends?”

“Oh, god. I’m going to get myself drunk so I don’t remember any of what you’re saying.” Dele murmurs, pottering over to the bar so he can order himself something sweet and incredibly alcoholic.

“Dele?” An unfamiliar voice says. Dele turns after ordering a _beautiful_ sounding strawberry cocktail, blinking a few times as he takes in the sight of Kate, Harry Kane's partner, smiling at him from his side. “You are Dele, right? Eric’s friend?”

The way she says _friend_ indicates to Dele that Kate knows a lot more than she is letting off, but Dele is not about to feed into the tone of her voice while in the middle of a fancy looking box surrounded by random businessmen wearing suits. “Yeah, that’s me. Kate, right?” Dele smiles, holding his hand out for Kate to shake.

She doesn’t shake it, though. Instead just pulls Dele into a friendly and unexpected hug. She smells expensive but still approachable, like rosewater mixed with roasted marshmallows in a beautiful blend of elegance and _safety._ Dele loves it. “Yeah, I’m Kate. It’s so good to finally meet you. Eric talks about you a lot when we go to dinner.”

“Really?” Dele smiles. He doesn’t know why it’s so surprising to him that Eric talks about him to his friends. He guesses he didn’t expect Eric to talk so _much_ when they’ve only been ‘official’ – the word makes Dele feel like he’s back in secondary school – for a few days.

“Yeah, like. Your name popped out of nowhere and now he doesn’t go a single conversation without mentioning you. I keep asking him to bring you along but he keeps saying you’re busy or you don’t want to,” Kate chuckles. “I know that’s a lie, though.”

Dele’s eyes roll. “Yeah, that’s a lie. Why would I say no to free dinner?”

Kate laughs. Vibrant and full of love. “I see you’ve already adapted to the reality of dating someone who pays for everything.”

Dele chokes on his cocktail as Kate mentions _dating_. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, shit,” Kate says, gently patting Dele on the back as she processes what just slipped through her lips. “I’m sorry. I thought you two were… like… you know.”

“Oh. No. We are.” Dele says.

“You are?”

“Yes! Happily. I just… I’m not used to hearing someone else say those words.” Dele says, setting his drink down on the bar as he composes himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Becca and John staring at him, Becca’s eyes wide with awe and admiration at how Dele is conversing with the woman she wishes she could be.

Kate nods. “I get that. I really thought for a minute that you weren’t and that Eric has been telling people things that haven’t actually happened.”

“Wait. Who has he told?” Dele asks, voice progressively getting quieter as he steps closer to Kate, wanting their conversation to be as private as possible.

Kate pauses. “He’s told H, and then told me. He’s told Kieran, too,” she starts. And… okay, Dele thinks. A lot of England’s top footballers seem to know that little Dele from the coffee shop is shacking up with Eric Dier. “You know… he’s probably told most of the Spurs lads. They’re all really close, as you can probably guess. It’s normal for them to be so friendly and open.”

“Right,” Dele says. “That’s definitely not terrifying.”

“You’ll fit right in, Dele,” Kate smiles. She emits a warmth, Dele notices, something that just soothes the conversation and makes Dele feel immediately calm and welcome. “Your friends look like they’re missing you. I’ll chat to you later, okay?”

Dele nods, still a little in shock as Kate hugs him one last time. He thinks he can see a burst of stars and butterflies following in her trail as she walks off to join the other partners again. Dele blinks a few times, grounding himself and collecting his thoughts before shuffling back to the group, cocktail gripped tightly in his fist.

“God, this is the weirdest day of my life.” Dele chuckles.

“Can’t believe you just spoke to Kate. _Kate._ She’s… she’s an icon.” Becca says, exasperated.

“You’re… so weird, Becs.” John murmurs. Dele goes to respond but is interrupted by the crowds around them entering the seating area. Through the glass doors there are ‘hospitality’ seats; seats with extended legroom, covered in soothing faux leather that boast the best views of the pitch right above where the teams set up on the sideline.

Dele and the gang shuffle down the steps to find their seats, still trying desperately to look as if they belong and haven’t just stumbled their way into an area they didn’t mean to. It’s bizarre sitting where they are. Even more bizarre knowing that the entire stadium can see them, see these people sitting in luxury seats without knowing how they earned the honour. Even the groups behind them, next to them and in front of them wouldn’t know the meaning of their presence. It felt a little empowering in a weird way. It makes Dele smile, even more so as the teams trundle out to the centre of the pitch.

Eric stands with pride among the line of Spurs players, their away kits sparkling as they stand, wait and then shake hands with the other Arsenal players. Dele doesn’t usually have an opinion on other teams in the league, he just watches whatever games he can find a dodgy stream for (you think they can afford Sky Sports in _this_ economy?) and supports the team with the prettier kit. But right now, sat among a sea of red and white, Dele has never wanted Arsenal to lose so much in his life.

The game starts nervously. Arsenal bathe in the home game privilege, letting the crowds lull them through successful passes as they manoeuvre through the seemingly disentangled Spurs defence. Tottenham seem to be nervous, clearing cross after cross as they desperately try to prevent falling behind so early. It’s painfully nerve-wracking for Dele, heart jumping and stopping everytime the ball even enters Spurs’ half of the pitch.

Dele watches with intense desire as Kane sifts through the field on a counterattack, feet darting to all different directions as he seeks to distract the Arsenal midfielders on his desired path. He’s on the edge of the penalty box, just about to cross to Christian Eriksen when a foot sticks out in front of him and forces Kane to the ground. There is an uproar in the stadium, Kane staring at the referee with such dismay, hands up in the air and knee grazed with mud and grass from the fall.

The whistle blows. The referee points to the spot. It’s a penalty.

The crowd _explodes_. Arsenal fans erupt with anger as the referee ushers all players to their correct spot, Kane and the keeper avoiding eye contact as they both prepare for the action. Tottenham fans, in their small designated stand in the stadium, shake with nervous jitters, fingers crossed around crossed hands around basically crossed bodies. Dele feels at one with their nerves, lips pressed together as Kane steps up to take the penalty.

He does his standard run-up. The keeper dives left. Kane rockets the ball to the top right corner, pummelling into the net and sending the stadium into a mess of _joy_. Dele hears Becca scream behind him, louder than anyone else in the box. Kane and the Spurs lads run around the perimeter, celebrating their early lead.

Dele stares directly at Eric. He knows Eric can’t see him from this far away and that he’s just imagining the eye contact they make. But, still. It makes Dele smile to pretend that among the thousands of people in this stadium they still find a moment to just bask in each other’s presence.

⸙

(Dele doesn’t find out until later that Eric had definitely made eye contact with him. It makes him much happier than he’s willing to admit.)

⸙

Spurs manage to win the game 2-1. Arsenal entered the second-half with sheer determination, breaking through any formation that Tottenham conjured up. It was only thanks to an exhilarating last-minute free-kick strike from Eriksen that lets Spurs claim the win. The game was stressful. Dele downed another two cocktails and took a few swigs from John’s beer by the time the final whistle blew. So while he may have been a little unsteady on his feet, he felt _great_.

Apparently, it’s standard for those in the hospitality box to stay and mingle in the bar area after the game ends. Kate explains how the partners linger until they get told the news that Spurs have headed back to the training ground and then they’ll all leave together. But, it seems, that away games are a great opportunity to catch up with people they haven’t seen in a while. There are ex-managers, current managers and friends and family who have all made the short journey to the Emirates for some reason.

All in all, it’s a lush half an hour, talking and mingling and meeting people Dele never thought he’d ever be in the same room as. Becca meets Gareth Southgate, begging Dele to take a photo of them which she promptly uses as her Facebook profile photo mere seconds after she is handed back her phone. John manages to garner attention from the singletons milling about the place and Dele, simple Dele, stands with his eyes glued to his phone, smile as wide as anything as he reads a text from Eric about meeting him at his house to celebrate the win.

“Guys,” Dele says, tapping on the shoulders of the group he came with. “I’m going to head off.”

John tosses him a knowing grin, eyes rolling as he presses a love-filled kiss to Dele’s cheek. “Have fun. Let me know if you’re coming back tonight so I can tell Picks whether or not to plate up dinner for you.”

“Thanks, Pebbles.” Dele smiles, his last wave going to Kate who catches his eyes just as he leaves the stadium.

He’s on the tube, carelessly swinging around the pole in the middle of the compartment as he hurtles along towards Eric’s stop when he hears an over-excited squeak from in front of him. Dele immediately focuses, eyes widening as he sees Jess, the sweet girl from the café, coming up towards him.

“Coffee shop man!” Jess says.

“Jess!” Dele smiles, bending down to meet her at eye-level. “How are you, my favourite little Spurs fan?”

“Good! Look,” Jess grins, turning around to show Dele the back of her Eric Dier shirt. In the centre of the number printed on the back, Dele recognises Eric’s signature, a barely intelligible scrawl exuding freshness as Dele sees the ink still drying. “I met him earlier! How cool is that?”

“Wow!” Dele smiles. “That’s amazing. I told you he’d love it.”

“Jessica,” Dele hears the familiar voice of the mother. “Come here, please. This is our stop.”

“Bye, coffee shop man!”

Dele smiles as Jess as her family get off the tube, her little hand waving gleefully at him as the tube continues to the next stops. If only she knew, Dele thinks. Her little mind would burst at the knowledge of where Dele was heading at that exact moment.

⸙

“There’s my winner.” Dele smiles, greeting Eric with the sweetest kiss as they meet up outside Eric’s house. Dele’s arms wrap around Eric’s neck as he is lifted off the ground and spun, their lips parting so the two of them can giggle at how gloriously cheesy they are. Once Eric sets Dele down they smile at each other, drinking in the sight of each other despite having only been apart a few days.

“Did you have fun?” Eric asks.

“So much,” Dele says. “I met Kate. She’s nice. And she also told me a lot about what you’ve been saying to her and your footballing pals.”

“Is that… okay?” Eric questions.

Dele kisses Eric’s nose. “Yeah, it is,” he answers. “Threw me off initially. But it makes me happy knowing you’re telling your friends about me. Although I don’t understand why you don’t want to take me to dinner with the Kane family.”

“God,” Eric laughs, eyes lovingly rolling as he unlocks the door and holds it open so Dele can enter first. “We weren’t even together when Kate started asking to meet you. Swear we’d known each other, like… two days? And she already wanted to meet you. I was terrified that would scare you off. We hadn’t even spoken about the whole _me being a footballer_ thing. Imagine if I brought you to Harry Kane’s house before we’d spent any proper time together?”

“Okay, that does make sense,” Dele says, kneeling down to greet the dogs as they bundle into the living room, alight with joy as they see their humans entering the room. “So why are we here, then? Figured you’d want to go and celebrate in the club or something.”

“I mean, I would. But it’s literally four in the afternoon. I’m not that much of an alcoholic,” Eric laughs, setting his bags down at the foot of the stairs as he kicks off his shoes and transforms into casual Eric. “Besides, I’d much rather spend my afternoon with you.”

“Doing what?” Dele grins.

“Baking.”

“Wait,” Dele looks up at Eric. “Baking?”

“Yeah,” Eric continues. “John told me you love to bake and I have a shit ton of ingredients in the house. Figured we could make some brownies or something. Have a really bad film on in the background, just chill with each other.”

Dele melts. Turns into a little puddle of Dele-goo on the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West in _The Wizard of Oz_ after she has water thrown on her. “That sounds perfect.”

So they move to the kitchen. The dogs sit in the corner, fiddling about with chew toys and occasionally play fighting, as Dele and Eric sift through Eric’s insanely cluttered cupboards to find something to bake. He has an excessive variety of sugar and flour, most packets not even being open. Dele questions why Eric has so many baking ingredients if he never uses them, and all Eric does is shrug and say _‘you never know when you’re going to need vanilla extract.’_

They decide to try and recreate Halloween treats they sell in _Lily’s_. Dele’s favourites have always been little graves: a brownie base to mimic soil and then half a biscuit at the top to act as the tombstone. The concept should be sinister, but the little sugar decorations that are added just intensify the spooky vibe rather than the dark one. Eric finds a chef’s hat because, of _course_ , he has that lying around in his house. Dele finds it adorable and snaps a few photos, setting one as his phone background in what he thinks is the most domestic thing he’s done in his entire life.

“Have you ever made brownies before?” Dele asks as Eric prepares the baking tray.

“I’ve made, like, packet brownies. You know the ones where it’s like… just add water and cook? I’ve never done it from scratch, though.” Eric says.

“Ooh… a baking virgin. The best kind of virgin.” Dele says.

Eric laughs loudly, louder than Dele thought his joke had deserved. There are crinkles by Eric’s eyes as he giggles and opens the ingredients they need to begin their brownies. Dele finds himself enamoured by the tinkling bubbles of laughter that fall from Eric’s lips and – _shit_. He’s falling in love with this boy.

“That joke really wasn’t that funny, babe.” Dele says.

“Was to me, Del.” Eric says, squinting as he reads the first steps of the recipe from his phone.

Dele shakes his head, quietly humming to the music sounding from the television as he waits for Eric to measure everything out. They’d decided on _Camp Rock 2_ for today, a more obscure and less intellectual choice, in Dele’s opinion, but Eric had insisted it was a good film. Dele didn’t question when and why Eric had watched the film, just wordlessly agreed and watched with confusion as Eric pulled the DVD from his collection and slipped it into the disk player.

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Eric says. “Spurs lads, and a few of the other London teams, have a Halloween party every year. Full on costumes, DJ and all that in the usual club. Do you want to come with me?”

“Like… _with_ you? Or just with you?” Dele checks.

Eric pauses. “ _With_ me,” he clarifies. “And the others can come, too. It wouldn’t be complete if they aren’t there.”

Dele smiles, pressing a long kiss to Eric’s cheek. “Yeah. I’d love to come,” he says. “So… Halloween costume party. What are you going to go as?”

“Well since we’re probably going to go in a couple’s costume I sort of figured we’d discuss that together.”

“Couples costume?”

Eric stares at Dele as if his initial statement had been common sense. “Uhm… yes? Couples costume. You think you’re getting away with a firefighter costume or something? Think again.”

“I haven’t done Halloween costumes since I was a kid and went trick or treating dressed as a pumpkin,” Dele declares. “Vincent Vega and Mia Wallace? We both liked _Pulp Fiction_.”

“So many people have already done that.” Eric says.

Dele rolls his eyes. “Couples have done every single costume in existence,” he says. “Bella and Edward? Since _Twilight_ is what made you talk to me to begin with?”

“Actually, it was how good your arse looked in your jeans that made me want to talk to you to begin with. And no, that is such a boring idea,” Eric murmurs. “For someone who has watched every romance film in existence, your ideas are shocking, my love.”

Dele groans, dipping his fingertips into the flour so he can flick it in Eric’s face. That ends up being a bag decision, however, as it distracts them both from the baking and leads them to fight with food like teenagers instead. Dele ducks behind the table and crawls underneath the chairs as Eric chases after him with a spoonful of cocoa powder to fling in his face, their seemingly choreographed action scene orchestrated with the barking of the dogs and occasional screams and chirps of laughter falling from their lips.

The kitchen ends up being a mess and it takes them a painfully long time to get the brownies in the oven, but they pass the baking time by showering together and writing each other sweet messages in the condensation that fogs up the bathroom mirror. Dele doesn’t regret flicking the flour after that.

⸙

“I think we should split the lovebirds up.” John declares a few days later. A lot of them are crowded around the coffee table in the living room of the lads’ flat, board game and pieces already set up as they finalise the teams. There’s eight of them in total: Dele and Eric sit on the floor, Dele sat in between Eric’s open legs, while Fern and Maguire take up part of the sofa. Pickford and Megan, his girlfriend who has come to stay for a few days, sit pressed to each other on one of the spare chairs while Becca and John sulk in their positions on the floor.

“Why?” Dele asks. “That’s just… not fair.”

“It is fair. You six are just… bragging.” John says.

Maguire groans. “Shut up and tell us the rules.”

They’ve picked out a game called _Linkee_ , a general knowledge and puzzle-solving game that involves a series of questions whose answers all link in a way. So, for example, the answers could be red, yellow, blue and green and the link would be that they’re all colours of a rainbow. The first to collect six cards, winning six of the links, wins the overall game. Dele had been gifted it from his cousins for his birthday, and he’d been wanting to play it since.

Each team has been given a pad of paper and a pencil to write down their thought process, a silent way of communicating so the teams can’t cheat.

“Right,” Becca says, self-declared manager of scores, sitting at the head of the coffee table. “Team names.”

“Team John Trivialta.” Fern says, her and Maguire grinning over from their space.

“Team Meg and Jord.” Jordan shrugs. Simple, as always.

“Team Low Expectations.” Dele says, showing no interest in pretending that he and Eric were going to be any good at this. He’s spoken to Eric about general knowledge before: he had no hope.

“Cool. We’re Team Sherlock Homies. Because we’re the only homies here.” Becca says as she finishes scribbling the names down on sheets of paper.

The game begins and everyone falls to silence except for the person reading the questions for the first round. Dele tries to pay attention, he _does_ , but it last all of two seconds as Eric soon rests his chin on top of Dele’s head and his concentration fizzles out immediately. Eric begins writing legitimate answers down on their paper, thinking and focusing as they tried to work out the link.

“Linkee!” Fern screeches, showing that she and Maguire have come up with an answer. “Modern, Britain, Liverpool… they’re all Tate art galleries.”

“Correct.” John says, handing over the card so Team John Trivialta can begin their collection.

The game continues, the tension rising as each team manages to win a card every now and again. They drain beer bottles completely dry, snacking on nachos and homemade dip whenever they pause to laugh and converse about something funny that occurs during the game. Dele finds himself looking around every few minutes, completely struck by how many loving people he has all around him. He knew he had friends, he spent most days prior to Eric bothering John every waking minute and exploiting their friendship, but having them all around him – playing a game he had suggested – really embedded in Dele’s mind how lucky he was.

Dele is brought back to reality by a gentle pinch of his wrist. Eric points the pencil at something he’s written on their pad of paper. A small ‘ _ED <3 DA_’ is scribbled in the top corner and Dele knows without seeing that a blush is spreading all over his cheeks.

Dele takes the pencil, twirling it between his fingers as he thinks of a note to write back. ‘ _uve known me just under two weeks & u love me? I must be the dream man._’

“Linkee!” It’s Becca this time. “Cats, Wicked… they’re all musicals.”

As the card is handed to Becca and John, Eric writes another note. ‘ _you are._ ’

Dele’s breath catches in his throat, body instinctively relaxing and sinking further into the comfort of Eric’s warmth. He decides to focus on the next question, not wanting anyone to see that they aren’t paying attention.

“Linkee,” Eric says. “Philosopher, Chamber, Prisoner. Harry Potter book titles.”

Team Low Expectations win that card.

‘ _do u want to stay here tonight?_ ’

Dele feels Eric’s smile. ‘ _I’d love to x_ ’

Team John Trivialta end up winning, with Sherlock Homies coming in second, Low Expectations third and Meg and Jord following up the rear. To be fair to Jordan and Megan, they hadn’t even been trying, really. The minute the game started Jordan had dozed off and Megan just seemed content watching from a distance.

Becca left the group after a couple of hours, waving goodbye as she walked out to get a lift home by her flatmate. Maguire and Fern disappeared to his room shortly after with Megan and Jordan heading out to a club or a rave or whatever else Pickford managed to hear about. It left the three of them, Dele and John and Eric, cleaning up the mess from the get together.

Eric offered to clear the table and fold up blankets as John and Dele washed cups and plates and put away the minimal left-over food.

“I saw the note he wrote you,” John says quietly. “The ED hearts DA one.”

“Oh.” Dele says, blush finding itself on his face again.

“It’s sweet. He’s sweet, isn’t he?” John murmurs.

“Is this going to be some sort of pep talk about how glad you are that I’ve found someone who brings out the best in me? Because if it is I’m going to squirt soap in your eyes.” Dele bluntly replies.

John laughs, a quiet chuckle as to not alert Eric of their conversation. “No, not really. I just… I don’t know. I like him.”

“So… it’s a _best friend pretending to be my big brother_ talk?” Dele grins.

“God, how does he stand you? You’re insufferable,” John groans. “It’s just me saying I think this is going to be good for you. He doesn’t bring out the best in you because you don’t need anyone to do that. You’re perfectly outgoing and wonderful as you are. He just… complements you. It seems like he belongs in your life as much as you belong in his.”

“You know we’ve been dating for less than a week, right?” Dele says.

“So the hopeless romantic is now being cynical? Bore off, Del.”

“I’m just… trying to not get ahead of myself,” Dele explains. “He’s _great_. And it’s all great and fun and good. But I’m just aware that it’s been, like, two weeks. Probably less. I don’t want to get so comfortable when he’s not even… you know… _out_.”

“Is that a problem to you? That he’s not out?” John asks. “Because, like. You know he probably won’t be able to do that for a long time?”

Dele listens as he hears Eric walk down the hallway, the door to the bathroom closing and locking. “No, it’s not. Not really. And I’m not going to expect him to come out in some grand gesture or whatever.”

“Good. Because he’s young and in a shitty industry that’s full of pricks who won’t be supportive. A footballer’s career is as successful as his public reputation. The minute they lose the respect of fans their career will never be the same.” John continues.

“I know, Stones,” Dele says. “I know he’s young and he’s just moved out here and he can’t risk coming out as a gay-twinkle-fairy because some dickhead fan or journalist will drag him through the mud. I’m not wanting him to come out for me and I’m not worried about him being in the closet. I spent my secondary school years not out and I managed to have fun. I’m just… worried about not being able to enjoy these early months.”

“In what way?” John asks.

“Like,” Dele thinks. “When Maguire brought Fern back they were completely attached to each other. In public, kissing, laughing and just… being in that _phase_. I’m worried all our first precious moments are going to be in his house or in a fucking park in the middle of nowhere and that eventually, he’s going to get fed up of being so private and nervous about who is watching and what they’re saying. And that, like, he’ll just decide it’s not worth it. _I’m_ not worth it.”

John stays quiet, his arms looping around Dele’s shoulders. “He’s not going to do that, Del.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

Eric comes back at that point, peeking his head into the kitchen as to not interrupt the two boys. “Hey,” he says. “You ready to go to sleep?”

John kisses Dele on the cheek, giving him a gentle squeeze as he releases him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dele nods, relishing the way Eric’s hand instinctively finds its place on Dele’s lower back as they shuffle towards his room. They’re already in comfy clothes, lush jumpers hanging from their shoulders as the heating supplements their attempts to stay warm in the October cool that has found its way into the apartment. Eric lies on the bed as Dele shuts the curtains, switching off the lights and letting the bedside lamp illuminate their sleep-desperate faces.

Rather than lying on his own side of the bed, Dele sits on top of Eric, fingertips fiddling with the strings on his sweatpants as he thinks of what he wants to say. He can feel Eric looking at him in anticipation, assumptions bordering on the cusp of a sweet intimate conversation and a _less_ innocent end to their night.

“Do you like it here?” Dele eventually asks. “I know it’s completely different to what you’re used to.”

“I love it here,” Eric says. “It reminds me of Portugal, in some ways. And of my family home. Why are you asking?”

“I just like knowing that you’re enjoying your time with me.” Dele shrugs.

“You say that as if the time is going to run out soon, or something.” Eric urges.

Dele looks up at Eric as he finishes tying the strings into a bow. “I don’t want to be the reason you can’t be like the other players,” Dele begins. “You know… how Kate and Charlotte get to wear shirts with their partner’s names on the back and get to be really open about their love and support. I know we can’t really do that now, or ever, I guess.”

“Do you think I want huge public displays of affection or something?” Eric asks.

“No, just like… your successes are a huge part of your career. When footballers win things they bring their family along. Their wives and girlfriends get photographed as if they’re an extension of the player. It’s just part of the culture, I guess. And I feel like I’ll prevent you from experiencing that.” Dele explains.

Eric chuckles quietly. “Del, my love,” he says. “You realise that if we weren’t together I’d be dating another guy, right? Another guy that I also wouldn’t be able to be open with? It’s not an anti-Dele thing. It’s a… a societal thing, I guess.”

“But-”

“Dele. You aren’t preventing me from having anything. I don’t care that if Spurs win the league next year I won’t be able to kiss you in front of thousands. Because I’ll be able to come into the tunnel and do it there instead. Is it inconvenient that we have to monitor what we do more than others? Yeah, of course. But it also means that there won’t be photographers digging into every aspect of my romance life. Every other part of my life is plastered in the headlines of magazines and newspapers. The cost of my car, my house, my family members’ names. Everything like that. I like the fact that you don’t have to deal with all of that,” Eric shrugs. “You didn’t sign up to have people dissect every part of your life. I did. So I’m glad I get to protect you from that.”

Dele smiles. “Oh… okay.”

“I love being here with you, exploring _this_ ,” Eric gestures between them. “You’re the best chapter in my life so far, Dele. And I’d quite like if you made up the rest of my chapters.”

Dele gags. “God. You were doing so well. You just went from a perfect romance protagonist to cheesy young adult novel in two seconds.” He laughs.

“Really? You think that’s bad?” Eric dares, flipping the arrangement so Dele is against the bed and he hovers on top. “Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.”

“Fucking hell. Did you just quote _Wuthering Heights_?” Dele groans, unable to hide the smiles and giggles that fall from his lips as Eric begins to fiddle with the hem of his jumper.

“Badly, but yeah.”

“Just undress me before I change my mind about letting you in my pants again.” Dele says. Eric doesn’t dish out anymore quotes that evening.

⸙

They go costume-shopping the next day. Eric takes him into expensive shops where the clothes hang on individual rails and workers offer champagne the second they step inside. For Dele, who is used to the cluttered and child-filled atmosphere of Primark, it’s a new experience. They still don’t know what they want to go as, constantly vetoing each other’s idea whenever they find something that could work. It’s a long day of Dele heaving mini heart attacks every time Eric buys something where the item doesn’t have a visible price tag, Dele insisting he wants to pay for his part of the costume and the two of them dipping into changing rooms to ‘give opinions on different articles of clothing.’

The day after Dele has work. It’s a busy shift, a lot of people coming in and out and letting the October chill take over the inside of the coffee shop. Dele has to cut his lunch break short to help John with the rush of customers, forcing a smile as he deals with arrogant customer after arrogant customer. It’s a draining day. He gets back to the flat alone, John says he has a date with someone he met at the Spurs game, and for the first time in a while, he feels rather lonely. He makes himself the epitome of budget dinners, spaghetti hoops on toast, and curls up on the sofa to flick through the news. Dele’s day seems destined to finish negatively, until Eric texts a simple ‘ _facetime? x_ ’, and his whole mood flips.

On the thirtieth Tottenham play at home. Dele and Eric finalise their costumes for the Halloween party the day after, huddled in the staffroom of _Lily’s_ as they make travel arrangements and enjoy the last few sweet moments they have before Eric has to leave for the stadium. John keeps peeking his head around the door to complain about a new hire (Becca had to hire a new kid, someone called Luke who is so _unbelievably_ fit that he’s taking all the attention away from Stones), but other than those minute interruptions it’s just the two of them. Before Eric leaves through the back-exit Dele kisses him for a long time, hoping to transfer some of his positive and confident energy to Eric for the game.

“You’re going to win.” Dele assures.

Eric smiles, expression accompanied with a gentle shrug of his shoulders. “We’ll see.”

“You don’t sound very confident.”

“Well, Watford are a very good team.” Eric explains.

Dele nudges their noses together. “Tottenham are better,” Dele asserts. “I believe in you.”

“If we win I owe all the success to you.” Eric says. He kisses Dele’s forehead before he leaves, flicking up the collar on his coat to attempt to slip away unnoticed.

⸙

Tottenham win.

Dele texts Eric an uncharacteristically suggestive ‘ _so. you owe me ;)_ ’

Eric responds later in the evening, most likely a few drinks under as the team celebrate at Kane’s house. ‘ _yiu are my muse!!1 play so much bettr when I imagine u there_ ’

And… well. Eric’s reply doesn’t fulfil Dele’s unspoken wish. He’d hoped for some pictures, in _that_ sense, or some other flirty response in the tone of ‘ _come over x_ ’. Dele doesn’t mind though, not really. He’ll get what he wants eventually but for now, knowing that Eric thinks of him during games, Dele thinks he’s been given the best gift he could ever wish for.

He has Eric.

⸙

“I’m doubting our idea,” Dele says as he looks at himself in Eric’s bedroom mirror. “I suddenly feel like _Pulp Fiction_ would’ve been better.”

Eric steps out from the bathroom, standing just behind Dele as he looks at both of them. “I disagree. I think we look good. These costumes cost a lot, Del.”

“Only because you insisted on having them handmade. You can get these jackets on Amazon for, like, ten quid.” Dele murmurs, flattening his hands on the pink material of his jacket.

“You know as well as I do how Amazon is a corrupt business. You pay for the quality of what you order. Do I want to spend a tenner on a jacket that is made of plastic and will probably catch on fire? No. Besides,” Eric explains, sitting on the edge of his bed so he can pull on his shoes. “We look like a good cross of costume and well-dressed. Rather than turning up in, like… some really embarrassing bodysuit that makes us look ridiculous, we’re going to look good. That means we’ll look good in photos, Del.”

“You say that as if you’ll be able to post photos anywhere.” Dele reminds.

“I can post group photos on social media if I want to. But you know I’m not one for posting on those sites anyway.” Eric shrugs, sticking a leg out so he can pull Dele onto his lap. He nuzzles his head into the curve of Dele’s neck, arms wrapping tightly around his waist as they just sit.

“Oh, by the way,” Dele says, dipping his hand into his pocket to pull out a little box. “Happy two week anniversary. This time a fortnight ago you tried to woo me by saying I’m too fit to be real.”

Eric smiles, corners of his eyes softening as he takes the little box from Dele. “You didn’t have to get me something, Del. And I still can’t believe that pickup line worked.”

“I didn’t have to but I wanted to. You spent a fortune on these fancy jackets. Don’t want you thinking I’m dating you for your money,” Dele says, clearing his throat as he watches Eric open the box. “You’re hard to buy shit for. You don’t wear, like, anything fancy. But you wear a watch. That’s all I had to go off.”

“Del… watchstraps are so expensive.” Eric murmurs, fingers cautiously brushing over the faux leather as he takes them out the box.

“Shut up, rich kid. You’re not allowed to talk about expensive. Anyway, turn it over,” Dele instructs. “I don’t know if you remember this or not, but you drunkenly texted me the other day saying you play better when you think of me. So that’s a D. You know, for Dele. And then that’s a quote.”

Eric turns the strap in his hand. “You are the most important thing to me now.” He reads.

“It’s a _Twilight_ quote,” Dele laughs. “But, it doesn’t sound like one, does it? Figured that _Twilight_ is always going to be… you know… _our_ franchise. If someone else reads it they won’t know where it came from, just that it’s a beautiful sentence. So it’s an inside joke for us, I guess.”

“God,” Eric murmurs. “You always say I’m the romance protagonist but this, Del. This is… incredible. I love it. Thank you.”

Dele smiles into the kiss Eric gives him, watching with light and love in his eyes as Eric switches out the strap immediately. Dele notices how the embossed quote lies where Eric can feel his pulse, and in some sickeningly romantic way, it makes Dele happy knowing that every time Eric’s heart beats Dele won’t ever be too far away.

⸙

The club is loud. And busy. Dele didn’t know what he expected, perhaps for it to be a little quieter, unlike the other week. Dele thought that booking out a club would mean there would be fewer people everywhere. Then he remembers Eric talking about how lots of different clubs are here, and that each player from that club has probably invited several people. Eric invited about five, Dele guesses, so it makes sense the more he looks around.

They arrive about an hour after the party starts, Dele gripping tightly onto one of Eric’s belt loops as they squeeze their way through the crowd to their private booth up in the VIP area. Becca, John and the rest of the group are already there, pitchers and empty beer bottles covering the entire surface of the table. The seats are rammed, only enough space left for one more person to sit down. Eric sits first, gently pulling Dele onto his lap so they can both be comfortable.

“How drunk are you?” Dele asks, eyes staring at John. John has a black coat with cheap fur-looking material outlining the hood part. There’s a plastic sword on the table and he seems to have sprayed his hair with white hairspray or dry shampoo. Dele can’t for the life of him work out who he’s supposed to be.

“Very!” John shouts.

“What’s your costume?”

“Seriously, Del?” John says, eyes rolling in exaggerated annoyance. “I’m Jon Snow. You know… I’m John. So it’s John Snow. Jon. John. Jon Snow.”

Dele laughs at John’s response, his repetition of the word John a clear indicator of how much alcohol he’s already drunk. Becca has styled her hair into a short up-do, parts of it curling over her forehead to try and mimic a male style. She has a Tottenham jersey on and, _wow_. She’s Harry Kane.

“Of course she is.” Eric says into Dele’s ear as they both take in everyone’s costumes. Maguire and Fern have dressed up as a Disney couple, Megan and Jordan coming up last for effort as they try to pull off a Baz Luhrmann inspired _Romeo and Juliet_ combination.

“So you two are Sandy and Danny, then?” Becca asks, words slurring a little.

“But in a subtle way,” Dele says, turning a little so the group can see their Pink Ladies and T-birds jackets. “I’m a pink lady and I love it.”

“Those jackets look so good. Did you get them online, or something?” Fern says, leaning over to gently brush her fingertips over the embroidery on the back.

Dele shakes his head. “Mister Show-off over here got them. Apparently, he wanted something he could wear outside of Halloween, too.”

“You two look cute.” John grins, lips glossy from the residue of a vodka shot he’d just downed.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Dele says to Eric, turning to look him in the eye. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“You know I’m going to go and order the dorkiest cocktail ever, right? Do you really want to prance about the club with a cocktail glass?” Dele says, dotting a kiss to the corner of Eric’s lips as he stands.

“Fine. We can share. Just get two straws.”

Dele can tell what Eric is trying to do. It’s obvious he doesn’t want Dele spending more money that he doesn’t have on him. Dele thinks the sentiment is sweet but it makes him feel a little awkward at the same time. He knew money would be something of a tricky conversation at some point, he just didn’t expect it to come about after two weeks.

“Dele!”

Dele turns. “Kate!” He grins. “Hermione? Is Harry here as Potter?”

Kate smiles, gesturing behind her. “Nope.” She says just as Kane steps into the light. He’s in a cat costume, a ginger, furry and sweat-filled cat costume. Dele can only imagine how much persuasion it took to get Kane to dress like that.

“Crookshanks? Legendary, Kate.” Dele says, momentarily pausing their conversation as he turns to order a drink.

“Are you and Eric doing a subtle _Grease_ tribute?” Kate asks.

“Yeah,” he smiles. “We went to see it one night at an open air cinema. It was cold and a bit rainy but it was fun. It was Eric’s idea, if you can’t tell from the jackets.”

“I think it’s perfect. Not too obvious that people will be suspicious but still enough so that those who are important know you’re here as a duo. Clever,” Kate smiles. “Also… is your friend here as Harry Kane?”

“Becca? Oh, god. What’s she done?” Dele asks, thanking the bartender as he is handed his _Boo-jito._

“She, uhm. I think she’s a little _gone_. Came over and told me I’m her idol and was asking a lot of questions about H.” Kate laughs. At least she’s laughing, Dele thinks. Means she isn’t as traumatised as Dele feels on the inside.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. She’s never been to something like this before.”

“It was cute! Sort of. She got a photo with H, though. So I think that’s made her entire life. I’ll see you around, okay?” Kate smiles embracing Dele before dashing back over towards Harry.

Dele starts to move back to towards where their booth is but is interrupted halfway there by an arm around his waist and lips against his neck. The fact he doesn’t panic means he knows who it is. He turns around to face Eric, smiling as he looks up at him despite his confusion.

“Why are you here and not supervising the children?” Dele asks.

Eric chuckles. “I missed you. You were taking forever.”

“I was gone for five minutes at the most, Eric.” Dele says, holding the cocktail up for Eric to try.

“That’s still five minutes too long.” Eric responds.

Dele stills as Eric leans down to kiss him, painfully aware of how _public_ they are. Dele knows the possibility of everyone else in the room being as drunk as their friends already were was slim, and that plenty of the costume-cladded individuals would be able to see what was happening and take a good guess at the situation. “There are people around.” Dele reminds.

Eric shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t care.”

“You… don’t?” Dele asks.

Eric answers Dele with a kiss rather than words. Dele feels Eric’s fingers in his hair and all his worries of being spotted melt away. It’s as if nobody else is in the room as they stand there, sharing sips of the _over-priced_ drink and occasionally whispering in each other’s ears.

“Do you know what song’s on right now?” Eric asks.

Dele focuses for a second. “Oh, my god!”

“We should’ve worn Jackie Chan costumes.” Eric says.

Dele shakes his head. “I mean… I’m sure that would’ve been fun. But it’s sort of hard to look sexy in Ninja costumes. Besides, what sums us up better: fighting films or cliché romance ones?”

Eric kisses Dele again. “Romance. Definitely.”

⸙

Dele wakes up the next morning with a headache. He’s not surprised given that he tends to wake up with a hangover more than he wakes up perfectly sober and well. Dele wakes up to the smell of lavender and tangerine and settles immediately. There’s rain on the window, as always, tapping like delicate fingernails drumming over a ceramic surface in an odd pattern. It’s soothing, waking up to such peace and calm.

Dele rolls on to his side, sitting up ever so slightly, Their costumes from the night before are scattered on Eric’s carpeted floor, except for their expensive jackets which are hung on the wardrobe handles. Dele appreciates how past-drunk Dele and Eric cared enough to hang their clothes up before getting on with their evening. On the dressing table in the corner, their pumpkins smile out at the world, their less than perfect carving skills showing in the jagged and uneven lines that have been cut into the surfaces. They’re sweet, though, and the memories that are created by seeing them make Dele happy. The dogs are at the foot of the bed, curled together in a deep slumber. They must’ve snuck in, Dele thinks, hopefully not last night, though.

His phone lights up on the bedside table, constant flashes from what seems like messages sent to a group chat. Dele groans, being quiet and gentle as to not wake Eric while he tries to read the texts.

**John Pebbles to _Tottenham Thotspurs_ : !!! wtf did you guys do last night??**

**John Pebbles to _Tottenham Thotspurs_ : blurry photos in newspapers are everywhere**

**John Pebbles to _Tottenham Thotspurs_ : and ur both probably too hungover to care!!! Damage control you twats**

Dele unlocks his phone to look at a picture message that had been sent by Becca. It’s a screenshot of an article by The Sun, of all newspapers. The photos are all from the party, high quality ones of Kane and Kate entering and leaving in their costumes sandwiched between blurry ones of him and Eric. They’re blurry enough so that unless you know who Dele is his face isn’t recognisable. He could either be a random guy or a girl with very short hair.

“Eric, doll,” Dele says, ever so gently nudging Eric. “I think you should look at your phone.”

Eric groans as he wakes up, pressing the home button of his phone to simply look at the trail of notifications on his lock screen. “Well… shit. Guess we kind of fucked up last night.”

“I did warn you.” Dele says.

“I know.”

Dele pauses. He types out a half-arsed reply to the group, sending a vague and unbothered ‘ _oopsies? Guess we’ll live and learn_ ’ before tossing his phone down and rolling to face Eric properly. “Do you regret ignoring my warnings? This is… sort of big.”

“No,” Eric answers, fast and sudden and certain in his response. “I had a wonderful evening with the person I’m dating and falling in love with. Why would I regret that?”

“Falling in love with?” Dele repeats.

Eric’s eyes roll. “Don’t act all surprised, you loser. How do you expect me to _not_ start falling in love with you when you’re so… so… _you_?”

Dele blushes. He can feel the warmth in his face and see the colour in his cheeks as he catches his reflection in the mirror propped against the wall. “Glad we’re on the same page. But I’m always going to hold it against you that you started falling first.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from you, Del.” Eric says, arm finding its way around Dele’s waist to pull them together under the covers.

“Are you going to reply to your messages? You’ve probably got some really angry agents and managers waiting for your response.” Dele murmurs.

Eric shakes his head. “They can’t bother me until I open and read their rants. They’re probably already sorting it anyway, don’t need me popping up being unhelpful and hungover.”

Dele laughs. “Can’t wait to meet your fake girlfriend next week. D’you think they’ll manage to find one who looks exactly like me?”

“Ugh,” Eric cringes. “Imagine if they try and do that. That’d be the worst.”

Dele pauses, relishing the sound of the rain on the window. Perhaps now the weather is a symbol of something. A sign of the chaos they accidentally created yesterday evening. “We’re going to be okay though, right?”

“Of course we are.” Eric swears, sealing his promise with a long and loving kiss.

“Okay, cool,” Dele whispers, eyes shutting as he settles back into their bed. _Their_ bed. He doesn’t know when it stopped being Eric’s, but he doesn’t think about it too hard. “What should we do now?”

Eric thinks for a second. “Sleep?”

Dele sighs; an exhale of happiness and contentment slipping between his lips. “Sounds perfect.”

So they sleep, settle back down into the safe bubble of _them_ knowing that nothing is going to stop them now. As Dele sleeps he dreams of the final scenes of _Notting Hill_ , how the lives of Anna and William are accelerated while every aspect of their life flashes on the screen in mere seconds. Wedding, kids and all the important points in their life. At some point in his dream Anna becomes Eric and William becomes himself. And time slows down.

Right down.

Because currently, on the first of November with the sun cutting through a deep layer of cloud outside, they don’t need to move that fast. They don’t need to move that fast _ever_. God knows where they’ll be in a month’s time, let alone years.

Dele dares to open one eye and peek at Eric who, unsurprisingly, looks back at him. There’s something his gaze, his beautiful ocean-blue eyes, that tells Dele they’re thinking of the same things. And, _yeah_ , Dele thinks. Eric is definitely the most important thing to him now. The most important thing to him ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and... that's that. sorry this part is so long. i realised i still had loads i wanted to write and figured i'd squeeze it all into one for extended deledier goodness. thank you for all your lovely words - i'll get back to them all now this is posted. i hope you've loved it as much as i 've loved writing it <3
> 
> tumblr: johnstnes

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: johnstnes


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